


The Indescribable Dawn

by iberiandoctor (jehane), Sir_Bedevere



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Case Fic, Crimes & Criminals, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Grandparents & Grandchildren, Holidays, Interrogation, Just Add Kittens, M/M, Post-Seine, Seaside, Smuggling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-03
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2018-12-23 10:07:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 36
Words: 56,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11987613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jehane/pseuds/iberiandoctor, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sir_Bedevere/pseuds/Sir_Bedevere
Summary: In the August of 1840, Javert is attempting to apprehend a gang of smugglers, and Jean Valjean is trying to keep the grandchildren in check.It's going to be a very long summer.





	1. Javert and Orri, Persuaded

“We already have one unruly beast.” Javert looked over his shoulder as he moved to the edge of the bed. “Why should we be inflicted with another?”

“Cosette is eager to see the little ones housed well,” Jean said, propping himself up on the pillow he had slept upon. “Come now. What is one more feline companion to care for? Why, it may even calm Orri a little.”

Javert crossed to the basin on quiet feet. “Or it could make him wild with jealousy,” he countered. “I know I would feel such, if I had to share your affections with another of my kind.”

“I am sure there are no more of your kind anywhere else in the whole world, my dear,” Jean laughed, watching for the blush that would begin at Javert’s collarbone and spread upwards to the tips of his ears.

Even after eight years together, his partner still could not receive a compliment well. Jean did not mind it, of course; he continued to compliment anyway, and he enjoyed seeing Javert blush. It was such a youthful reaction, a reminder that Javert had never been loved as a young man as he was now loved, never had the opportunity to hear such things before. How different Javert’s life would have been, if only someone had seen fit to love him. Then again, Jean was not too proud to admit that he was glad for it, selfish as it was, for now Javert was here, with him, and he could imagine no other life for himself. It was not as though people to love had been forthcoming in his own history either, save for Cosette.

Javert only grunted in reply, swirling his razor in the water of the basin with one hand and applying the soap to his face with the other. Jean admired the quickness of Javert’s blade, held in such a steady hand that he had shaved one cheek smooth up to the edge of his sideburn in mere seconds. Before he could apply the blade to the other side, Jean clambered from the bed and moved behind him. Javert stayed his hand as Jean leaned his own bearded cheek against Javert’s back and held him close. Javert breathed slowly and Jean pressed even closer, to content himself with counting the beats of that beloved heart as Javert carefully brought the razor up once more and finished his task. When he finished, he put it down besides the basin and brought his hands up to cover Jean’s where they were pressed against his chest. 

For a moment, there was silence, save for that heartbeat ringing in Jean’s ear, then Javert exhaled sharply and turned in his arms. 

“You may adopt another damned kitten, if it means so much to you,” he said. “You do not need to try and win me over like this.”

“I was doing nothing of the sort.” Jean had to crane his neck to look Javert in the eye when they stood this close, and he brushed his lips against Javert’s still damp chin. “I only wished to touch you.”

“Sentimental old fool,” Javert muttered, but then he leaned down and kissed him, lips soft from the soap, and for another glorious moment, there was only the silence and Javert’s fingers tangling in Jean’s hair. It was too early for such things; Javert was usually moody in the morning and he would be late if they lingered here for much longer, but Jean was not going to stop him. Javert was devoted to his job, although it had a different face now, and Jean was loathe to stand in the way of duty. So, with a gentle hand, he pushed Javert away and smiled.

“You will be late,” he said. “And Orri needs his breakfast.”

Javert quirked his lips and said nothing further, turning to don his uniform. But when he appeared in the kitchen ten minutes later, he let his fingers brush against Jean’s as he took the coffee that he was offered, and he kissed Jean again on his way to their front door.

He paused when he got to the gate, and turned to address Jean. “I meant it, Jean,” he said. “Adopt another kitten, if you wish it. Both Orri and I will get used to the idea.”

Then he spun on his heel and walked away. Jean watched him disappear around the corner and then returned inside. Orri, perhaps having heard his name, had wandered from the kitchen and wound about Jean’s feet until he relented and bent down to pick him up. The cat purred and pushed his head against his shoulder. 

“You would not mind a companion, would you?” Jean asked him. “A little one to look out for? You remember how terrible it was to be on the street, I’m sure.”

Orri fixed his eyes on him, dark and so intelligent that sometimes Jean was sure he understood what was being said, no matter how ridiculous Javert said the fancy was. A torn ear, freshly damaged from some street fight or another, twitched, as Orri considered Jean’s latest remarks, and seemed to find them wanting, for he growled low in his throat. Jean chuckled.

“Well, regardless of your opinion, there will be another, my boy. You will learn to live with it. You might even win a few of your scraps with a partner in crime.”

Orri yawned, his ire forgotten, and leapt lightly to the floor, stalking into the library to take his usual place by the fire. Jean smiled and followed, going to his desk to write a note to Cosette. She was not due a visit for a day or two, but he wished to tell her the good news, and perhaps, if he was lucky, she would decide to come today. 

He dispatched the note with the first gamin he spotted on the street, and went to the bedroom to dress for some time in the garden. If Cosette did decide to come, it would not be until the afternoon.


	2. An Old Friend Comes to Call

It had been an inclement May, wet with constant rain that half threatened to wash Paris into the Seine. 

Javert had been never been one to complain about the weather -- that is to say, it was notoriously untrustworthy, characteristic of this unpredictable city, and an aspect to be endured with stoicism -- but his experiences with the river eight years ago had left him with a leg that ached when it was damp, and he had found it easier since to make his displeasure at the tumultuous Paris climate better known. 

It had to be said: his leg also ached when the weather was too hot, as June was shaping to be. 

This June morning was entirely unobjectionable, however: clear skies, sunshine, a breeze stirring his summer coat. Javert did not completely trust the mild weather; he did not wish to be caught off guard when it changed for the worse. 

Still, he had left the house with the warmth of Valjean's lips still lingering upon his own, and under the circumstances he felt it might not be too indulgent to smile to himself as he walked the temperate streets. 

It _would_ be too indulgent to take a fiacre, though. He walked; he would always walk in his city, be it in the rain or the blazing heat. The day he was required to be conveyed in a carriage to his place of work would be the day he retired from service boots first.

Eventually he arrived at the station-house at No. 14 Rue de Pontoise. He had first served there under M. Benoist of the 47th quarter; he had first encountered Marius Pontmercy within those walls. Now, more than eight years later, Javert was himself the new commissary at Rue de Pontoise. It did mean he spent more of his days behind the grating in the office on the first floor and less time policing the streets, but it kept him out of the wet and scorching sun. 

François, his desk sergeant, was on hand to greet him as he pushed through the doors of the station-house. 

"Good morning, Monsieur. The senior officers' meeting is on hand this morning at the usual hour, and your fourteen o'clock appointment with the Ministry for the Maritime has been confirmed. However, you have an unexpected addition to your schedule." 

Javert frowned. "At this hour? Who is it?"

"M. Desmarais from the Prefecture. He asked to be shown to your office," François added meaningfully. 

Javert did not smile, or rise to the bait, but he found himself taking the stairs somewhat more quickly than usual. He knew he had not had the habit of making friends, and those he had made he seemed to have acquired despite himself. One of those few was humbly sitting in the chair outside his office: the man he had met eight years ago as the diligent young Inspector (2nd class) Desmarais from the Commissary at the Rue de la Barillerie. 

The years had seen the man promoted to a position within the first bureau, and witnessed a proliferation of grey threads in his curly hair, though his countenance was still as earnest and youthful as it had been the day he had arrested an unlicensed streetwalker and then been persuaded by Javert to let her go. 

Desmarais did not stint to smile; he rose to his feet to clasp Javert's hand. "M. Javert, it is good to see you!"

"I would say the same," Javert said; he found himself smiling too despite himself as he waved Desmarais into his office. 

"It has been more than a year since the Buisson case," Desmarais said, referring to the string of robberies across the Rue de la Tournelle that ran along the boundary of the 47th district. "You look as if you have been keeping well."

Javert said, "Keeping busy, at any rate. As you must have been, with the goings-on at the Ministry of Justice. What brings you to our humble district?"

"Hardly humble, Monsieur; it is where the real policing needs in our city remain," Desmarais said, seriously. "As it is with the new issue the Prefecture has with the Ministry of Commerce and Manufacturing."

"And what issue might that be?"

"The Ministry has seen an increase in smuggling activities of late. There is the usual commercial tax evasion, in cotton and manufacturing products and the like, but apparently they are seeing more luxury items -- tobacco and spirits -- from across the borders as well as from England and the Channel Islands. La Douane is kept very busy." Desmarais sighed. "At any rate, it seems the main market for this line of goods is here in Paris. The Ministry believes the Prefecture of Police could take more action against the smugglers and their middlemen here on the ground."

Javert nodded. "I see. There will be an official communiqué?"

"Not as such," said Desmarais. "M. le Préfet does not consider himself to be the official whipping boy for the Ministry of Commerce. Besides, La Douane is far better funded than we are."

Javert suppressed a sigh. There was no use pretending the constant jostling over political and jurisdictional territory did not exist, much as he and others desired that to be the case. "La Douane has no jurisdiction away from our borders. If the Ministry believes the 47th district is harbouring the ringleaders, I would wish to know of it." He eyed Desmarais. "Unofficially or otherwise, of course." 

"Nothing official yet. Which is why I'm here, rather than the Secretary of the First Bureau," Desmarais said, and Javert suppressed another sigh. It had been eight years, and still he could not see anyone in that position other than his former patron, M. Chabouillet, who had held the post for twenty years and under ten different Prefects of Police.

Desmarais continued, "I heard a rumour on the Cité that your old friend Claquesous might be involved in this smuggling ring."

Javert frowned. This was deeply troubling news. "We thought he might have been involved in the Buisson robberies, and that we would find him when we apprehended the miscreants, but he did not surface. In fact, the rest of Patron-Minette have been scarce for years."

"Ever since your triumph at Gorbeau House," Desmarais said; for an instant he once more resembled the young officer who had looked at Javert with such hero worship. "I know you have been pursuing Claquesous for years, and his pretty friend, too. So, when my sources gave me this intelligence, I thought I ought to let you know at once."

"I'm obliged," Javert said. He had not stopped trying to search for the remnants of Patron-Minette, not least because he was concerned that they might have learned Valjean's secret from Thénardier. They had managed to outwit that man by demonstrating that both Marius and Javert himself were alive, and then Thénardier had obliged them by getting himself killed in an altercation between prisoners while in remand. Still, Javert had never quite allowed himself to let his guard down on Valjean's behalf. 

Eight years had passed. Cosette and Marius now knew the truth, and anyone who had had personal contact with Jean-le-Cric had long forgotten him. Indeed, the entire community in the Invalides were familiar with Valjean as the philanthropist Ultime Fauchelevent. Still, Javert could not hold back the pang of concern. It could not be countenanced if anything were to happen to Valjean. He just needed to make sure nothing untoward came to pass.

Desmarais rose and took his summer coat from the rack. "Your desk sergeant says you have a meeting with your senior officers this morning, as you do every week. You are running a most tight ship, Monsieur," he said admiringly.

Javert wondered if that were true. Certainly he made every attempt to enforce a sense of discipline at the district, and to instil diligence in the conduct of all duties from witness interrogation to paperwork. But there was always more work to be done, and he somehow ended up spending longer hours at the station-house than officers half his age.

He walked Desmarais to the door, as befitted an old colleague and a senior officer besides. As he turned back to the office after having bidden Desmarais goodbye, he noticed François' carefully blank look.

"What is it?"

"Nothing, Monsieur," François said. "The men are waiting for you to address them. And I have taken the liberty of summoning a fiacre for your afternoon meeting at the Ministry."

"Nonsense," Javert said. He felt all of his sixty years. "For how long have we known each other? I will walk, as I always do."

François looked suitably chastened. Javert had not forgotten the night last winter when they had arrested a gang trafficking in refugees from across the border, and the young officer had taken it upon himself to remain at his superior's side. Javert was no feeble old man who required protection on the streets, even though he might not be as fast as he once was, but if his men kept insisting that he required a carriage, or that he be spared from field work, he might fall into his dotage after all. 

Still, it was not entirely the young man's fault. Undoubtedly he felt it was part of the respect his superior was owed. 

Javert made himself smile in an attempt to soften his tart words; when François recoiled slightly from the sight, he realised it had not worked at all. He sighed again to himself. Valjean occasionally suggested that he might wish to be less severe with the men, and that a modicum of friendliness might be beneficial to morale, but Javert knew that he was not very good at it.

Thoughts of Valjean brought with them the nagging concern about Claquesous, and the potential risk this posed to his beloved companion. Javert straightened his back. He would get to the bottom of this smuggling rumour in his district if it was the last thing he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The branch of French law enforcement in charge of customs offences and smuggling is (still) the [Directorate-General of Customs and Indirect Taxes](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Directorate-General_of_Customs_and_Indirect_Taxes#History), commonly known as _La Douane_. In 1840, their armed field agents were deployed [in brigades or mobile detachments which patrolled the French borders and arrested smugglers](http://www.douane.gouv.fr/articles/a11085-histoire-de-la-douane-francaise). Luxury goods smuggled in the early and mid-19th Century apparently included [eau de vie, Dutch gin, lace, silk, batiste, leather gloves, perfume and jewellery](https://www.napoleon.org/wp-content/archives/newsletters/1018.html).
> 
> In this chapter, we see that Javert has been promoted to commissary of the 47th quartier, or the [Jardins des Plantes district](https://play.google.com/books/reader?id=KFBDAQAAMAAJ&printsec=frontcover&output=reader&hl=en&pg=GBS.PA222) in which the Rue de Pontoise stationhouse is located -- this is the stationhouse where we saw him in LM Vol 3 Book 8 bestowing two pistols upon a young lawyer, and the district in which we last saw Patron-Minette.


	3. The Unexpected Guests

His darling Cosette was nothing if not dependable; as expected, she sent the boy back within the hour, telling Jean to expect her at three o’clock. 

He worked a little longer in the garden, trimming back some vines and the long neglected grass at the edge of the pond. Such easy jobs would once have only been the precursor to a long day spent outdoors on far more difficult tasks, but these days he found that they were quite enough for him. It was a small concession to his advancing years, but one which had become entirely necessary. He had even begun to need an hour or so of rest in the middle of the day, when in his youth he could have survived on no sleep for days on end. He had resolved not to care, not to allow the decline of his body to affect his mind. Besides, it was not so bad as all that; it was not a chore to need extra hours at night with Javert at his side, and during the day, well, Orri could be persuaded to curl up at his feet and it was almost good enough.

He toiled until lunchtime, ate a small meal, then took to his chair for an hour. At half past two, he woke and tidied himself: fixed his cravat, buttoned his cuffs and combed his hair. He set to the tea things, and, at three o’clock precisely, there came a knock. Before he could even open the door, the squeak of small voices, tempered by the smooth tones of Cosette, was enough to bring the widest of smiles to his face. He had not expected her to bring the children at such short notice!

“Grand-père!”

A little body flung itself at him and he caught it in his arms.

“Mama said we could surprise you!”

“And what a surprise it is,” he laughed, swinging Fantine above his head, “How are you, my flower?”

“Very well,” Fantine reached out a hand and stroked his beard, a sensation she had enjoyed ever since she was a babe in arms. “But Émile is getting a cold.”

“I am not!”

Émile, the oldest of the brood at eight years old, stepped inside and put a hand on Jean’s arm.

“I sneezed once this morning, Grand-père, and now Fantine thinks I am ill. She won’t stop going on about it.”

If Jean was honest, there was a pinched look about Émile’s face, and a scratch in his voice, but he did not mention it. Émile was a proud little thing and hated to be thought of as weak, despite the unavoidable fact that he was often ill and had been since he was very small.

Jean rested Fantine on his hip and turned to Cosette, who was holding Georges in a similar fashion. Jean’s youngest grandchild was asleep, his golden head resting on his mother’s shoulder.

“Papa,” Cosette smiled. “I was so pleased to get your note.”

She leaned in to kiss his cheek, a gesture that Jean returned, and when he kissed Georges’ forehead as well, the babe stirred and murmured something incomprehensible.

“Grand-père!” Fantine patted his hair. “Do you have any cakes?”

Later, when tea had been drunk and cakes devoured, the children went to play in the library, Émile leading Georges carefully by the hand, and Cosette settled back into her chair. She was glowing; motherhood suited her, had suited her since the earliest days of her pregnancy with Émile. Even now Jean could hardly believe that, at the same time she was with child, he had been all but willing his own life away. He had never admitted as much to anyone, but Émile, as much as Javert, was responsible for saving Jean’s life, and one day perhaps he would tell the boy that. Cosette certainly knew it, or at least she knew that Émile was Javert’s favourite of her children, the one he liked rather than merely tolerated for Jean’s sake. Javert knew that the boy had been the saving of him, in the end, and had even seemed to overcome his jealousy when Jean had turned much of his attention to the babe for a time after his birth. 

“The kittens are too young still to be away from their mama,” Cosette said. “But when they are ready, you shall have the pick of them.”

“I will have to visit you more often,” he replied, “to get to know them and choose my favourite.”

“Ah yes.” Cosette looked into her teacup, a small smile playing on her lips. “I’m afraid that may have to wait until after the summer. I have a small proposal for you, Papa. And for Javert.”

As though it had been planned in advance, just as Jean opened his mouth to ask her what she could possibly mean, there came the scrape of a key in the lock and the sound of the front door swinging open. Javert was home, early for once, and by the time Jean had stood to go and greet him, the children were rushing out of the library and got to the front door first. 

“Ah,” Javert eased inside through the crowd and closed the door behind him, “We have company.”

“I did not think to tell you.” Jean pursed his lips to hide a smile as Georges used Javert’s leg to steady himself, leaving a smear of jam on his trousers. “I was not expecting you to be home just yet. I am sorry.”

“No need for apologies.” Javert shrugged out of his coat and yielded it to Jean’s hands. “Hello, children. Is your mother here also?”

“In the parlour, monsieur,” Émile replied, holding Fantine’s hand to stop her throwing herself onto Javert’s trouser leg as well. “We were in the library. We can go back there, if you want.”

Jean grinned. Émile knew Javert so well: such insight for so young a child.

“Would you be so kind?” Javert nodded, screwing up his face for a moment before he added, through gritted teeth, “Perhaps – I will come and see you in a moment.”

Émile glowed and hustled his siblings back into the library, the door swinging shut behind them. Javert let out a breath, and then Jean had set upon him, unable to keep from kissing him for a moment longer. He had never been able to resist the man when he was flustered.

“I would have stayed at work another hour if I had known,” Javert grumbled against his mouth. “So much for my afternoon plans.”

“They will not be here for much longer.” Jean pulled back and reached up to straighten Javert’s cravat, “Now come. There is still some tea, and Cosette was about to ask me something important.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to all our commenters and kudosers so far - we're having a real blast with this and are glad that you seem to be too! :D


	4. The Unexpected Guests, continued

The meeting at the Ministry for the Maritime had taken much of his afternoon, and when it finally ended Javert felt it was not worth the trouble of returning to the station-house only to turn around and head back home once more.

As he walked the summer streets toward Rue Plumet, he knew there was an urgency in his step. At the best of times he found himself walking more quickly on his return journey, his thoughts speeding ahead of him to Valjean and Orri and the home they had made for one another in the quiet outskirts of Les Invalides. Perhaps Toussaint would have stopped by, or Valjean would have taken a stroll to the pâtisserie around the corner, and there would be cake for a late tea. And after Desmarais’ news about Patron-Minette and the smuggling ring, Javert was even more eager to see Valjean once more: to clasp his hand, and to know him as safe as any diligent policeman could make him.

As it happened, Javert’s plans to return home early were for once less than opportune. 

He arrived upon the threshold of their peaceful household, only to be set upon by a cavalcade of small children. 

“Monsieur Javert! You are home! Have you brought us more cakes?”

“Ah,” Javert said, faintly. There was a little girl bouncing up and down under his nose, rendering him temporarily cross-eyed, and a toddler clutched unsteadily at his thigh. “We have company.”

Valjean appeared in the hallway, his venerable white head towering above the tiny swarming bodies. He reached for Javert’s coat, trying unsuccessfully to hide a smile. “I was not expecting you yet. I am sorry.”

“No need for apologies,” Javert said, not daring to look down. He felt certain the littlest one had left a smear of something unaccountably slimy on his trouser leg. He vouchsafed a greeting in the general vicinity of his knees. “Hello, children. Is your mother here also?”

The biggest child – Émile was his name; a sensible lad, as far as children went – took hold of his sister and, to Javert’s gratitude, managed to stop her from her propulsive movement. “She is in the parlour, monsieur. We were in the library. We can go back there, if you want.”

Javert stopped himself from sighing with relief. “Would you be so kind?” he said, and tried to gently dislodge the sticky toddler without actually touching any of the child’s surfaces. Émile took the hint and grasped his little brother’s hand, detaching him from Javert with a distinctly adhesive sound.

Émile looked expectantly up at Javert, and Javert found himself saying, through gritted teeth, “Perhaps – I will come and see you in a moment.”

That concession did not seem half as onerous when Javert saw the proud smile it elicited from the boy.

When the hallway was once again blessedly free of children, Javert scowled downwards at his trousers. Jam, it looked like. 

He rubbed crossly at the fabric, and then found himself with an unanticipated armful of Valjean – one who was amused and, for some reason, amorous. It had been eight years, and he would never fully understand the man; still, he would never complain of anything that gave rise to kisses, no matter how unexpected.

“I would have stayed at work another hour if I had known,” Javert said, but it was churlish to continue to be short-tempered when one’s beloved companion was kissing one enthusiastically. 

“They will not be here for much longer,” Valjean assured him. He straightened Javert’s cravat, a glint in his eye. “Now come. There is still some tea, and Cosette was about to ask me something important.”

Javert followed Valjean into the parlour, somewhat more eagerly. If jam were to be involved, it was infinitely preferable for it to be within a fruit tart or spread on brioche, rather than smeared upon his person by an unwary child. 

   
  
  


Cosette was sitting in the parlour, surrounded by the debris of the tea things. She greeted Javert with a warm smile – either she was oblivious to the rumpus her offspring had caused in the hallway, or she had decided to let Javert sort it out by himself, Javert could not determine which. 

After the niceties, Javert found himself installed at Valjean’s side with a hot cup of tea and a slice of gâteau des Rois, which Toussaint had never baked in her life and which must have come from the Pontmercy household. Orri crept into the parlour, curled against his right foot, and mewed plaintively until Cosette leaned down and fed him crumbs from her plate.

This domestic scene made Javert feel as if he was being softened up for a request to which he might otherwise be loath to agree; worse, he felt as if the aforesaid set-up might in fact be working.

Best to cut right to the heart of it. “Your father said you had a proposition for us?”

Cosette took a sip of tea. “I see Papa has foreshadowed my news! I believe I have mentioned that Marius and certain of his colleagues have been assisting Maitre Cremieux and our Prime Minister with certain legal initiatives? The railway is one, and then there is the matter of our republic.”

Javert frowned. He was well aware of the republican sympathies held by Baron Pontmercy and his wife; he was even prepared to express a certain level of support for said leanings, which sought to enshrine the fundamental rights of all men under the King and the state, and women also, and that this ought to be so regardless of their birth. But he had lived for too much of his life under the monarchy to be easy about Adolphe Thiers and his talk of a new constitution.

Still, he was gratified that Valjean’s son-in-law was now working within the government to effect change via proper constitutional process rather than rabble-rousing in the streets. Marius had made substantial progress since his days on the barricades; a wife and three children and growing political influence would do that for a young man.

Valjean patted Javert’s hand, managing to convey both comfort and caution at once. To his daughter, he said, “Yes, my dear, you did mention this. You also said you were helping him with that work,” he added, which was something that Javert did not know, but it did not come as a surprise. Valjean’s daughter had spent her childhood fetching and labouring from dawn to dusk; now she divided her time as an adult between raising her children, and working tirelessly to better the lives of other people’s children, so no child would be as mistreated as she had been.

Cosette said, “Yes! And that is why I plan to go away this summer.” She set her teacup down. “Marius has just received word. The party wishes to send him to London in a fortnight. Officially he will be studying the British railroad system. But unofficially he will also be discussing with the Whig party the British concepts of universal suffrage so as to better draft reforms in France. We’ve decided that I should go with him. After all, my English is already better than his.”

Valjean cleared his throat uncomfortably, and Cosette reached for his hand. “Papa, please do not worry. Our relations with the British could be better, but there is absolutely no danger of unrest.”

Javert knew Valjean would be struggling with his natural instincts to safeguard his daughter. They both knew, as well, that those instincts would be in vain: when Cosette set her mind to something, she would not rest until it had been achieved.

At last, Valjean said, “Surely you are not bringing the children with you to England?”

“I wanted to bring them,” Cosette confessed. “But it might not be good for Émile’s health, and Fantine cannot bear to be parted from the kittens while they are yet small, and so I allowed myself to be persuaded that they and the household would remain here in Paris for the summer. Only…”

Cosette smiled beatifically, and Javert’s blood ran cold.

“Only, Aunt Gillenormand is not as young as she once was, and it is difficult for her to keep up with the little ones. Fantine is too speedy even for the nurses! So I was thinking that you both might be willing to keep an eye on them there, or they could even come here to Rue Plumet if Javert’s duties permit.” Cosette put both her hands over Valjean’s. “It would greatly ease my mind, Papa, if you and Javert were to agree to look after them while Marius and I are away for the summer.”

Valjean squeezed back. “I would like nothing better,” he began, fervently, and then he stopped and glanced hesitantly across at Javert. 

“…That is to say, it would of course be a great responsibility. It is true, the house now has sufficient room for the nursemaids and your excellent housekeeper, but I do not know how Toussaint will feel, sharing her domain with Volquin. And, and I believe Javert’s duties somehow multiply as the days get longer…”

Cosette loosed Valjean’s hand to reach for Javert’s. “I know how busy you are,” she said. “But truly, it would be a tremendous relief to me knowing that the children would be in your care. You would keep them safe! Besides, Georges is so fond of you…”

Javert suppressed another sigh. This was hardly fighting fair. 

Firmly, he put aside all considerations of sticky fingers and vigorous jumping about, and focused on the only matter that was important: the desires of Jean Valjean, who had for so many years never allowed himself to desire anything at all for his own sake. 

“Very well, if the children promise to be on their best behaviour,” he began, and was astounded when Cosette pressed a kiss to his cheek.

Valjean looked rather like he desired to kiss Javert as well, and much less chastely. “Thank you,” he said to Javert, softly. Then, to Cosette, eagerly: “Perhaps we could take the children to the seaside for a week or so? The sea air might do Émile some good.”

This time, Javert could not suppress his sigh. It was going to be a very long summer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Franco-English relations, and the Thiers premiership, and Whigs, from [here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Adolphe_Thiers) and [here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Napoleon_III).


	5. The Fugitive

Javert was as good as his word. When Cosette announced her intention to leave Rue Plumet shortly in order to be home for dinner, he rose and stepped through to the library to see the children as he had promised. The activity gave him little pleasure, Jean knew, but he had always appreciated how much Javert was willing to do for him. Besides, if anything had ever given him room to doubt, surely Javert agreeing to have the children with them for two months was all the sign that he needed.

“In all honesty I had not expected him to agree, Papa!” Cosette exclaimed, as soon as Javert had left the room. “I imagined I would be able to negotiate your moving to our house for the summer, with Javert staying here.”

It was a sensible plan, one that showed Cosette had considered all of the parties involved and their individual preferences, save for one, the most important of all: it would inconceivable to Javert that they be apart for so long. Of course, Jean did not relish the idea either, but for the sake of Cosette and the children, he would have been willing to attempt it. Cosette, used to Marius being called away for days and weeks at a time, would not have considered this, and of course it was right that she should not. How to explain to one so young the urgent ceaselessness of old age, the need to stand against the racing years and hope for more time, just a little longer together?

He did not explain. Instead, he simply shrugged and smiled. “Then it is good, is it not, that we do not have to be concerned about it?”

A high pitched shriek. followed by a low rebuke from Javert, made them both start. Cosette was first out of her chair and out of the door, motherly instinct making her quick on her feet. Jean followed her through to the library, to find a scene of mild destruction, centred around, as usual, Fantine. 

Georges was once again clutching Javert’s leg, peering at his sister from behind that reassuring barrier. Émile sat in his favourite chair, a book spread open on his lap, but he too was frozen, staring with wide eyes. A flower urn had been overturned, spilling its contents on the hearth rug, and the newspaper which had been resting on the side table, awaiting Javert’s perusal, had fallen, its pages scattered. In the middle of all this unrest stood Fantine, holding a small, mewing kitten.

“Jean. Cosette.” Javert moved first, turning to them. “It seems this afternoon, Fantine has been smuggling a fugitive.”

To her credit, Fantine had the good sense to hang her head, although Jean saw the edges of a smile tugging at her lips. The kitten, too small to be away from its mother, shivered violently in her hands, and Fantine placed the little creature carefully into her voluminous sleeve, clearly the place where the animal had been hidden all the afternoon. 

Cosette watched all of this in a half daze, then found her voice. “Fantine! Did you make this mess?”

“It was the kitten,” she mumbled. “I only took him out for a moment.”

“The kitten, ably assisted by his kidnapper,” Javert cut in. “Such a little thing should not be away from his mother’s side.”

His voice was short, forced, and Jean wondered if he was recalling the stormy night on which he had found Orri, tiny and helpless, who would have died if not for Javert’s rescue of him. Javert had always said that he had brought the kitten home for Jean, that it was what he imagined Jean would do in his place, but he had become fond of Orri as he had grown into a fine, strong cat, and would now rail against the mistreatment of any creature that came across his path. 

Fantine trembled under Javert’s gaze and cringed away from his voice. “I’m sorry, Monsieur Javert, I will not do it again!”

Several things happened then at the same time. Georges, picking up on the tone of Javert’s voice, began to cry, burying his face in the uniform trousers he was holding. Émile slammed his book shut and began to scold Fantine on his own accord. Cosette moved to take her daughter’s hand and take over rebuking her, and in this cacophony of noise, Javert turned to Jean and raised an eyebrow, attempting to detach Georges from his leg at the same time. Despite the situation, Jean could not help but laugh. 

“I am so glad that you’re amused by this,” Javert said, hand flexing before he reached down and patted Georges on the head. “There, there. Enough tears.”

Georges only cried louder, and Jean, taking pity on his partner, bent to retrieve the toddler with one arm. He turned swiftly and swept Émile from the room with his spare hand, leaving Cosette and Javert to deal with Fantine alone. In the hall, he bounced Georges on his hip until the boy calmed down, whilst hustling Émile into his shoes, jacket and hat. They then both put George’s coat and shoes on, and by the time Cosette brought Fantine out to join them, all was peaceful in the hall.

“I am sorry, Grand-père,” she muttered. “I didn’t mean to make a mess and I will not do it again.”

“See that you don’t,” Jean said, his words soft. After all, she had already endured quite enough hard ones, at the hands of her mother and Javert. Jean knew that he was lenient with his grandchildren, but then he had been lenient with Cosette and she had grown into the best of young women, so he did not think too little of his own parenting. 

“Goodbye, Papa,” Cosette kissed his cheek, the smile returned to her face. “Come for dinner on Tuesday evening, please. Bring Javert, if he will come. We can discuss the holiday.”

“We will be there.”

As he closed the door, he heard Javert’s step behind him, and turned to find he was being watched.

“Well, that was a little bit of excitement, was it not?”

Javert made a rough noise in his throat, reaching to take Jean’s hand between his own. 

“I will have them here, for as long as Cosette desires,” Javert mumbled, “But I will need time – to myself and for the two of us together. Promise me we shall not spend two entire months apart.”

“The children will bring their nurse, and I will ask Toussaint to be here more often,” Jean began, twisting his fingers around Javert’s. “We will have hours to ourselves as usual, I am sure, for reading, and you will be at work anyway—”

A glance upwards and he stopped, for he realised what Javert had been talking about. The man was blushing, a sight almost as wonderful as when he was flustered, and a sure sign he was speaking of their other recreation. Even all these years later, Javert could barely mention, let alone discuss, that time they spent together.

“And as for that…” He stepped closer and wrapped Javert in an embrace, lips brushing his ear: “There will be plenty of time. You need not fear. Now come along.”

“Where—“ Javert’s hands clutched at his shirt as Jean kissed that same ear — “are we going? It is five o’clock in the afternoon, Jean!”

“Then surely we must begin practicing taking our chances when they come, my dear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're super glad that you all seem to be enjoying this as much as we are :D


	6. An Afternoon Diversion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Javert and Valjean engage in activity ordinarily too scandalous even for young men.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Warning for an entire chapter of flagrant and explicit sexual content. Hey, at least it's short!)

It was five o'clock in the afternoon. Five o'clock! Even the most dissolute of men did not seek out the embraces of their lovers at this hour. They waited until after the stores and the offices had ceased their business, and dinner had been consumed, before dallying with their mistresses in clandestine apartments or indulging in companionship in establishments of certain repute. 

And yet Jean Valjean, former mayor and secret philanthropist and the best man Javert had ever known, was proposing they do just that. Before dinner, while the sun was still high in the sky.

It was scandalous. It was not for respectable men.

And yet, instead of protesting, Javert allowed himself to be led up the stairs into their bedroom. He allowed Valjean to draw off the navy uniform jacket and waistcoat, and to slide his hands beneath the crisp white shirt to caress Javert's chest.

Javert allowed these outrageous actions. He was in fact doing more than allowing them; against his better judgment he appeared to have taken hold of Valjean's shirt and captured Valjean's mouth with his own.

"I hope you realise how unseemly this is," he remarked, between kisses. "It is not even a thing young men do, nor those wastrels who frequent the alleys at the Pigalle."

Valjean made a hushing sound, which was not easy to perform against Javert's lips. "Nonsense," he mumbled. "What’s unseemly is that such men seek only to satisfy themselves, no matter the time of day. Whereas it is not my own satisfaction I seek, but another's."

He broke off the kiss; his hands moved unerringly to the buttons at the front of Javert's uniform trousers. "And as you know, I am selfishly greedy for his satisfaction." 

Javert inhaled sharply as Valjean began to release the buttons that held the fabric closed. He knew that he was already so hard that when the flap was opened, his prick pushed itself free like a much younger man's, desperate for release in the grasp of a clandestine lover.

"Are you planning to satisfy me, then?" he asked, unevenly, steadying himself by clasping Valjean's shoulders.

"I will try," murmured Valjean, and wrapped his big hand around Javert's erection.

Javert heard himself make a strangled sound. Valjean started to stroke, massaging his length with the square, sure fingers that had dragged him from the Seine and had brought him to this new life, and that had since that time mapped every inch of his skin. 

They had done this so often in their eight years together. Valjean knew exactly how to touch him, knew the gentle caresses and then the long-handed pulls that would bring him closer and closer to the edge. Very soon Javert could not catch his breath. Did it usually only take such a short passage of time to drive him into this state? He swayed on his feet, dizzy, fighting for control. 

"It is time for bed," Valjean said, pulling off and catching Javert around the waist. For a man his age, he was still impossibly strong; he supported Javert's weight in his arms and walked him backwards across the room to their modest bed. 

Javert lay down gingerly. The afternoon sun streamed in from their window, outlining the floor and the bed in a square of light.

Valjean got onto the bed as well, settled between Javert's thighs, and took him into his mouth. 

This took Javert entirely by surprise, as it was not an act which Valjean often performed. The sharpness of such uncommon pleasure was almost painful: he could not bite back his groan in time. Valjean's lips enveloped him, greedily, making his thighs tremble and his hands fist in the sheets. Desire seized him, pulsing hotly in the pit of his belly, the irresistible tension mounting with suction and pressure and every slow, wet slide of tongue. 

"Jean! Wait, Jean. If you keep that up, I will spend myself."

Valjean, bless him, did not pay any heed to this nonsense. His powerful hands clasped Javert's hips, and as Javert bucked helplessly against him, he swallowed Javert down to the root.

It was too much for any man. There could be no control in the face of such ecstasy. Javert felt his eyes sliding shut, his head rolling back, his body arching off the bed.

"No, Jean. Jean, I cannot stop --" 

He heard himself cry out as whiteness overtook him, bright as the sun that fell across their bed. 

He returned to himself by increments, his blood loud in his ears, damnably weak in every limb, to find Valjean still in place between his thighs and working with his tongue to lap up every drop of Javert's spend. Javert's softening prick twitched, over-sensitive now under these careful ministrations. 

"No more," he whispered. "Come here. You are too much for an old man."

He pulled Valjean up to kiss him, his own strong salt taste upon Valjean's lips. Valjean returned the kiss, chastely this time, a small, self-satisfied smile on his mouth, and then settled against Javert's shoulder. 

"I need not remind you that I am older than you!"

"Never," Javert said. He considered this as he finally managed to catch his breath. "When you are not trying to kill me, you make me feel as though we are both still young."

Valjean snorted softly. Then he said, "Thank you, Javert."

"After what you just did, it should be the other way around." 

"I am serious," Valjean said. "I know the children will not make it an easy summer, and I am grateful that you agreed to have them nonetheless, for my sake." He pressed his lips to Javert's shoulder. "I will never cease to be grateful for you. I thank God for letting me share your life, and you for agreeing to share it. I have simple needs, and they start and end with you." 

Javert felt seized with helpless gratitude of his own. He held on to Valjean silently for a long moment before he could be sure of his voice. 

"It is I who should be grateful. I am grateful for anything that makes you happy, even if it also smears my clothes with jam and destroys all the urns in the house." 

Valjean placed his hand over Javert's chest, over his still-racing heart. Javert ran a hand down Valjean's side and realised his companion was still fully dressed in his shirtsleeves and trousers.

"You are not... you have not..."

"Later," Valjean said serenely. "Perhaps after dinner? I am told it is still too unseemly an hour for an old man to seek out love."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Next chapter we return to your usually scheduled programming of gen-rated fluff and policing.)


	7. Toussaint On Side

Jean woke with his face buried in Javert’s hair, the thick strands tickling his nose and chin, and listened to the sounds of Toussaint rattling around in the kitchen below. If she had already arrived then it was late, at least by his usual standards for rising, but he did not mind. Not today.

Javert slept on as Jean shifted beside him, murmuring when Jean coaxed him onto his back, then settling once more into his slumber. Jean propped himself on one elbow and brushed Javert’s hair from his face. Javert would only complain when he woke to find how late it was, but Jean was inclined to let him sleep on for now; what had his years of service earned him if not the chance to arrive a little late at his desk? Besides, this peaceful morning would be one of their last, until the turn of the season. Fantine and Georges would be unlikely to allow either of them rest beyond the sunrise.

Jean still could not believe entirely that Javert had agreed to the children staying for so long; his partner tried his best with them, as well as Jean could have ever hoped he would, but it was a struggle. Javert dedicated himself to Jean’s happiness as fiercely as he had once dedicated himself to the Law, often at the detriment of his own. The children were a fine example of that, tolerated solely because they were an extension of Jean himself, and for no other reason. The lengths Javert had gone to in order to remake himself into someone he believed was worthy of the love Jean offered him, was humbling. 

As though he could feel he was being considered, Javert shifted and turned his face into the pillow, a slight frown creasing his forehead between his eyes. Jean’s heart swelled as he watched, and he could not stop the press of his lips to that little crease, then Javert’s cheek, then his chin, then his ear. He nuzzled at him until Javert stirred, opening first one eye then the other.

“Valjean,” his voice cracked with sleep, “What are you doing?”

“Nothing?” Jean said, kissing him, until Javert had to push him away to breathe. 

“It doesn’t appear to be nothing,” Javert muttered, “What time is it?”

“Oh, it’s very late,” Jean smiled. “But you were so peaceful I couldn’t bring myself to wake you.” 

Javert groaned and rolled over, a small smile playing on his lips. “Leave me alone to get ready. Grant me that peace at least.”

Chuckling, Jean disentangled himself from the sheets and stepped into his trousers and shirt. He would go and see Toussaint and make sure there was coffee for when Javert came downstairs. As he glanced back at the bed, he swore to himself that he would try to minimise any compromise to Javert’s convenience that the children’s presence would cause. It would be the very least that he could do.

Toussaint was busy in the kitchen when he arrived downstairs, kneading dough for the bread and boiling the kettle for tea. She was long used to him and his companion and surely aware that Javert’s bedroom had not been used for years, yet she had stayed in his service and never made to ask awkward questions. She was an excellent woman, loyal and hardworking, and if Javert was less inclined to outbursts of temper and melancholy, Jean would still have her living with them, as she had when Cosette had still been at Rue Plumet.

As it was, thinking it better for all involved if they had their own space, Jean had suggested Toussaint go back to live with her sister after Cosette’s wedding, and come in three or four times a week to clean and make bread and cakes. He still paid her the same wage as he always had; it was not her fault, after all, that Cosette had moved away, and Toussaint’s discretion was worth the money. It was an arrangement that had worked well for eight years now, and did not seem likely to change, as long as all involved were happy.

“Good morning.” Jean went to the kettle and began to prepare Javert’s coffee. “Would you like some tea?”

“Please, monsieur.” Toussaint slapped the dough down on the table, sending flour clouds flying. “You slept late today.”

“Yes, I did,” he agreed. “And Javert will be late for work.”

She chuckled and shook her head. “It won’t hurt that station to have to run without him for an hour or so, would it? He works too hard, that friend of yours.”

“I know.” Jean poured the water for the coffee and tipped the rest into the teapot. “I try and tell him, but he does not listen to me. Perhaps you should tell him as much.”

“If I thought it would make a difference, I would,” Toussaint sucked her teeth. “But I doubt he’d pay me more heed than he pays you, monsieur.”

Jean took a seat at the kitchen table and waved for Toussaint to join him. She put the dough into a bowl and covered it, then wiped her hands and sat down. He valued the woman’s company, in the same way that he knew he must have once valued his sister’s, although he could not remember it as such. He thought that Toussaint must also like him, for she was always happy to talk and share a drink with him, lingering sometimes beyond her hours at the house. 

She also liked Javert, no mean feat since she had helped Jean nurse him back to health after his leap into the Seine and had such suffered the same barrage of abuse that Jean had been subjected to in those early days. The cross words had not seemed to have bothered her, rolling off her back like water off an umbrella, and when she had to physically pin Javert to the bed during a raging fever lest he injure himself with his thrashing, she had only brushed herself off afterwards and gone to fetch the doctor. As he got better, Javert had been wary of her, overly polite in that lock-jawed way he had when he was unsure of how his company would be received, but over the years he had come to accept Toussaint as an ally. For her part, she was always concerned for Javert’s health; she strove to make him eat more whenever she had the chance, and had more than once insisted that he take rest when he had worked a long shift at the station. Javert accepted all of this with a kind of bemused grace, and it was the best that Jean could have hoped for.

Javert clattered into the kitchen, cravat a little askew in his rush to get ready. With none of his usual politeness, he sank into his chair and reached for his coffee.

“Good morning, Toussaint. Have you been informed of M. Fauchelevent’s ridiculous plans for the summer?”

“No, inspector. What plans are these, monsieur?”

“Ah.” Jean looked down into his tea, then up into the two pairs of eyes fixed on him. “I had thought to wait, Javert, until you were gone to work.”

“Don’t hold back on my account.” Javert sipped from his cup, amusement crinkling his eyes. “I wish to see our Toussaint’s reaction.”

“Well.” Jean felt a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Cosette and Marius have asked if we will have the children here, for the summer, and we have agreed. They will come a fortnight hence and stay until the beginning of September. It will, of course, mean more work for you, if you wish for it.”

Toussaint glanced at Javert, perhaps reading the incredulous look on his face, and then she nodded, laughing as she spoke.

“Of course, monsieur! As though I would refuse. They are bonny children, each and every one.”

“Georges’ nurse will come with them,” Jean said, as Javert drained his cup and got to his feet. “You will not have to do everything for them.”

“I am already looking forward to it.” Toussaint watched as Javert briefly rested a hand on Jean’s shoulder, then went to make his escape. “And what does Monsieur l’Inspecteur make of the arrangement?”

“Monsieur l’Inspecteur is late for work,” Javert called from the hall. “But it will not take any great stretch of your imagination to work it out for yourself, I’m sure.”

As the door slammed behind him, Toussaint began to laugh in earnest, and Jean soon joined her. They would manage, the three of them. He was sure of it. They had weathered worse storms together than even Fantine Pontmercy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I almost forgot it was my turn to post, thanks Esteven for the reminder! ;)


	8. The Gorbeau Hovel, revisited

It rained heavily the next day. Javert felt almost pleased, as if his continual dire feelings concerning the weather had actually been justified for once.

As a consequence, the office was far more crowded than usual. The men always found more reasons to stay indoors when the weather was inclement, and as long as they had paperwork to catch up upon Javert did not fault them for it. 

François brought him a cup of coffee, which he drank while looking through the morning’s despatches and papers. There had been a break-in at No. 4, Rue des Fossés, the night before, and some miscreants had created a disturbance in the Place Walhubert in the early hours of that morning. Officers were still investigating; the scratching sounds of pen upon parchment emanating from downstairs suggested that fuller reports were in train.

There was nothing of note in the despatches that might allude to the concerns Desmarais had spoken of the day before, namely, the smuggling in luxury goods which so concerned the Ministry of Commerce and Manufacturing as well as their border control guards, La Douane. There was certainly no mention of the criminal, Claquesous, or his friend, Montparnasse, as indeed there had not been for years.

Javert frowned. He could not shake the nagging feeling of unease. 

When François brought the mid-day despatches which Javert always read with his mid-day meal, he asked his desk sergeant, “Anything to report concerning the La Douane issue?”

François said, “After your briefing yesterday, Lavalle and his team have started making enquiries of perfumeries and jewellers. I don’t think they’ve turned up any leads yet, though I will make a note to have him check in when he’s back at the station-house.”

Javert glanced at the window, which the rain had turned opaque. “I trust he will have the sense to pursue enquiries indoors today.”

The rain let up slightly in the afternoon, and Javert decided to deal with his unsettled mood by shouldering his summer coat and hat and heading out into the downpour. Staying out for too long in the wet would make his bad leg ache, but the cool air helped lift his restlessness, and he welcomed the damp tread of his boot-heels in the puddles and upon the cobblestones and slick streets of the Quartier Jardin-du-Roi.

He walked briskly down the Quai de la Tournelle, toward the Place Walhubert, and then traversed Rue de Buffon and the Rue du Jardin de Roi, now dripping with rain. Pulling his hat low on his head, he continued walking, and eventually found himself in the old quarter of the Marché-aux-Chevaux, with its dilapidated houses and rutted streets and low-walled enclosures, the populated buildings seemingly deserted in the dismal weather. 

His feet drew him along the Boulevard de l'Hôpital to the little-traversed corner of the Rue des Vignes-Saint-Michel, where the familiar facade of the Gorbeau tenement came into view. The mean building at first glance seemed a small hovel, presenting its side and gable to the road, but was in reality as large as a twisted cathedral, riddled with hidden rooms which housed the criminal element and those looking to keep from scrutiny for one reason or another.

This was the building in which he and his colleagues had entrapped the Patron-Minette gang, with rather dubious help from a young Marius Pontmercy. Within its walls, Valjean had been held prisoner, by ruthless men led by the even more ruthless Thénardier, and from whom Valjean had later escaped from under Javert's own nose. 

Javert paused on the threshold, and then knocked on the door. This was not his preferred method of entry, but concessions had to be made for status and advanced age. 

A very old woman cracked opened the door, took in the cut of his coat and the uniform underneath, and then the lines of his face. 

"M. le Commissaire!" It was the same Burgon, who was obviously still the principal tenant of this infamous tenement.

"Good afternoon," Javert said, firmly. "I would like to view the premises."

"Certainly, Monsieur," Burgon said, and stood aside to let him pass.

The corridor was dank and dilapidated, in much the same condition as it had already been eight years ago. The air smelled rank. Javert mounted the rickety staircase; he recalled the narrow interior as if it were yesterday.

He remembered the gang members, too: could see their faces, as clear as day. Guelemer the giant; Babet the crafty vaudevillian and jack-of-all trades; the many-aliased Bigrenaille; long-haired Brujon, who was known for wielding a cudgel; the road-mender Boulatruelle. These men had been the hardened denizens of the Salpêtrière, irascible in their criminality. That winter night eight years ago, Javert had put an end to them -- they had been arrested, and sentenced. As far as Javert knew, only Babet was still alive and serving the remainder of his punishment in La Force, the others having fallen victim in the intervening time to the particular cruelty of their fellow prisoners or to disease.

Then there had been Claquesous, whom he had always suspected of being a double agent, and his friend, the young and ruthless Montparnasse. They had both managed to escape from custody, and had never been found again.

Javert took his time to inspect the premises, tramping through the rooms and speaking to each tenant to see if anyone had any intelligence to share regarding these two infamous men. This diligent work took the better part of two hours. 

Finally Javert entered the room in which Patron-Minette had laid a trap for Jean Valjean that winter night eight years ago, a room which, according to Burgon, had remained empty and unlet for years.

"An ill-omened room," Burgon said, darkly. Javert knew hardened criminals were a superstitious bunch; to be sure, they knew no better.

He glanced around the dingy space: the fireplace, the bed on which Valjean had been held, the window through which the gang had tried to flee and through which Valjean had himself managed to escape. It was somehow not entirely easy to catch his breath. The thought of his friend at the hands of the criminal gang, of how he had then, himself, been blind to Valjean's need, to mercy, to anything except the need to arrest and capture... The room was warm, almost rank, and yet Javert had to suppress a shiver.

He had been the arresting officer, and he had not managed to keep all of Patron-Minette in custody. Claquesous was still in hiding somewhere in Paris; possibly even here, in the 47th district. It was amongst the many reasons why Javert had taken up the commissary's position in this quartier; why he kept a modest room at No. 10 Rue du Bon-Puits even though he was hardly there, a residence which he maintained solely in order to qualify for his post in the district of Jardin-du-Roi. He wished to keep his ear to the ground of the quartier -- so that if Claquesous and Montparnasse were to surface in their old haunts, Javert would be on hand to apprehend them.

Were they truly involved in this new smuggling business with La Douane? Or was this just an idle rumour, much the same as the other idle rumours of the last remaining members of Patron-Minette? Javert could not tell.

"Are you well, Monsieur?" Burgon asked. There was curiosity in her voice, as well there might be. Javert knew he was never less than bedrock-certain in public, and any hesitancy would be remarked upon.

Javert pulled himself together. "Entirely," he said. "Thank you. That will be all."

Tomorrow. He would debrief Lavalle and his team tomorrow morning, and if necessary call on the pawnshops and jewellery stores and perfumeries himself. The Ministry of Commerce would require that no stone be left unturned; for Valjean's sake Javert was prepared to rip the cobbles themselves from the Parisian streets.

But for now, after his afternoon spent with the ghosts of their fraught past, Javert felt seized with the desire to return to his peaceful present, his home in Rue Plumet. He wished to see Valjean's face, to feel the sure strength of Valjean's embrace about him, to hear the rumble of that familiar voice -- more dear to him than anything in this life, and for whom he would gladly lay down that life to safeguard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As an officer of the 47th quartier, Javert would have been required to maintain a residence in the [Jardin-du-Roi district](https://play.google.com/books/reader?id=KFBDAQAAMAAJ&printsec=frontcover&output=reader&hl=en&pg=GBS.PA222) in which the Rue de Pontoise stationhouse is located. Esteven suggested Javert might have decided to take a room at [No 10 Rue du Bon-Puits](https://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rue_du_Bon-Puits), of which the Dictionaire administratif says on page 575:
> 
> [ _“PUITS (rue du Bon-). Commence à la rue Saint-Victor, nos 107 et 109; finit à la rue Traversine, nos 19 et 21. Le dernier impair est 19; le dernier pair, 20. Sa longueur est de 82"_](https://archive.org/details/bub_gb_3kPRAAAAMAAJ).
> 
> In the Atlas Générale, [ the street is on 31 in the bottom left corner](http://pudl.princeton.edu/boundart.php?obj=79407z45c); [not far from Rue de Pontoise](http://www.paris-pittoresque.com/rues/103.htm). 
> 
> See also these pictures (Marville) of the rue du Bon-Puits as seen from [rue Traversine towards rue Saint-Victor](http://bibliotheques-specialisees.paris.fr/ark:/73873/pf0000984779/v0001.simple.selectedTab=record).


	9. An Uncharacteristic Chill

It rained for two days then. After Javert had left with Toussaint’s laughter ringing in his ears, Jean had followed an hour later into the showers, delivering alms and going to the church to discuss the fixing of the roof with the priest. He imagined that perhaps the next time he visited, or the time after, he might be able to bring Emile with him, to show the boy the nature of charity at a street level, entirely different from what he was used to at the Pontmercy household, where charity principally took the form of legal battles and sums of money so large they were virtually unimaginable. Emile was eight now, and a caring soul, quite old enough to learn to look to the needy around him and understand that he must do all he could to help.

On the second day, the rain kept him indoors, but Jean did not mind the imprisonment. After Javert left for work, thankfully before the heaviest of the downpours began in earnest, Jean had lingered at the table with Toussaint, who was preparing a pie for the larder. She of course did not mind one bit the idea of the children being present for so long; she was a woman who had helped raised a small army of nieces and nephews, and three more little ones for a month would be nothing to her.

“You must begin immediately to make preparations, monsieur,” she said, “Two weeks hence is not so long a time, and you must see you have little here suitable for children to be comfortable in the long term.”

Truth be told, he had not thought of it, too caught up in his joy to think, but he could see that the woman was right. The house was serviceable, but small, and for appearances sake, they must leave the room Javert supposedly slept in free, as though he were going to use it. That only left the smallest bedroom for the children to sleep in. Two of them could fit comfortably into the bed but not three. The nurse could sleep in the attic and he supposed, at a push, that Georges could always share with her, if she did not mind the imposition on her privacy. 

Then there was a question of linen, of where the children would eat, what they would eat, where they would sit, where he could send them to play so that Javert could have some time to himself in the silence he preferred at the end of a long day, among so many other questions that he began to write them down for later reference. Toussaint was helpful, making suggestions, but also threw up more and more questions, so that by the time she had finished her chores and put on her coat for the walk home, Jean rather felt that perhaps he had been remiss in considering the actual challenge of readying the house for the children. 

Instead of allowing himself to worry that he had been too hasty, he ate the lunch that Toussaint had prepared and went to his desk. The rain had brought with it a chill that was uncharacteristic for June, almost July, and he allowed himself the luxury of a small fire, just enough to heat the air through. He did not mind the cool air so much, but Javert was always cold and he would only be moody when he came home if he could not warm himself a while by the fire. It was a very small sacrifice to make, truth be told; Javert asked for so little that the least Jean could offer him was a room in which he felt comfortable at the end of a long day. 

He wrote some letters, listening to the crackle of the fire and the tapping of the rain on the windows. Cosette was the first recipient; he asked only that she confirm the dates that the children would be coming, and that she let him know how much she was prepared to send with them in terms of home comforts. The second was to a furniture maker he knew, a good man who had built the bookcases for the very library in which he sat, to ask him to come the next day and see what could be done about the smallest bedroom. He had no doubt the man would have better ideas than any he could think of to make the use of the space.

When his correspondence had been completed, he ventured out far enough into the rain to find some gamins sheltering beneath an overhanging tree at the end of the street. He gave each of them a letter, five sous, and a lump of Toussaint’s latest cake, wrapped in waxed paper. They were known to him; after a while, with careful application of attention and coins in hands, the street children who frequented these streets had begun to trust him, and he told Toussaint to feed any who was brave enough to come to the kitchen door. He did not know for sure how many had taken up the offer, only seeing one or two at a time, and always early in the morning, but the near constant replenishing of the pantry was sign enough that Toussaint was doing good work. If Javert knew about their open kitchen, and surely he must have done, for he was often awake early for morning shifts, he did not speak of it. The fact that he did not was all the begrudging approval that Jean needed. 

After that, he took to his chair and must have slept despite the book on his lap, for he woke to the sound of the front door and Javert’s heavy tread in the hall. The fire had burnt low but the room was, he noted happily, still warm, and he remained with his eyes closed as he listened to Javert muttering, the clunk of first one boot and then the next falling to the floor, the rattle of the closet, and then the soft click of the library door. He could imagine Javert peering in and seeing him asleep, reluctant to disturb him but drawn in by the only warmth in the house. Sure enough, he was soon standing by the fire. Jean could feel him there. 

He opened one eye enough to see Javert, standing with his back to the chair, hands held in front of him towards the flames. He looked a sorry enough sight; his hair was dripping, the queue straggled so that Jean longed to comb it out with his fingers, and his shoulders hunched. He was thinking, and doing so at great length; Jean knew the only reason Javert was not speaking to himself too was because he thought that Jean was still sleeping. Something had troubled him, that much was clear. It would not do now to let him know that he was being watched as well.

Jean allowed his book, still resting on his lap, to fall, and closed his eyes once more as Javert started and turned to him. He heard a soft exclamation and then felt Javert move closer. He schooled his breathing and waited; he would allow Javert to ‘wake’ him, and then there would be no need to admit he had been spying. 

A single finger came to touch his brow, brushing a stray curl back from his forehead, and then it was gone and a hand landed heavily on his shoulder, squeezing slightly too tightly to be comforting. Jean shifted and the grip loosened, but the hand did not leave him.

“Whoever it is,” Javert hissed, so fiercely that Jean barely recognised his voice; “Whatever they are doing, they shall not find you. If they show their faces I shall kill them myself.”


	10. The Deluge Over Rue Plumet

By the time Javert left the office, the evening skies had opened in earnest, deluging Paris with their vehemence. Javert hastened down a Rue Plumet that had fair turned into a tributary of the Seine. The sturdy boots that he had worn every day for almost a decade were wet though, and Javert felt soaked to the skin, in a way that he had not experienced since the night he had been pulled from the river by Jean Valjean.

He pushed through the front gate of No. 55, navigated the swamp in the garden, and clambered, splashing, up the steps to their front door. 

The hallway was dark, the house silent and frigid, save for the drumming of the rain on the windows, and the far-off crackling sounds that came from behind the door of the library.

Javert flung his sodden hat and coat on the rack, and stooped with effort to pull off his boots and wet socks. His bad leg did indeed hurt from the hours in the damp, as he knew it would. He peeled his drenched jacket off as well, and bit back a curse as the chill rose through his damp shirt-sleeves and trousers. There was one place in the house that would be warm.

He hastened to the library, where he knew Valjean liked to spend the late afternoons before a roaring fire, over a book, or occasionally napping. Javert opened the library door cautiously, in case the latter was occurring.

Sure enough, there was the man himself, sound asleep in his favorite chair, venerable white head propped on one fist. He had clearly stoked the fire in preparation for Javert's return, for it was still crackling in the grate. Framed in the glow of the firelight, he looked hale and strong, despite his seven decades. It was an image Javert treasured immensely.

Quietly, so as not to wake Valjean, Javert moved over to the fireplace and presented his hands and wet self to the heat. 

He stood there for long moments, feeling the fire's warmth seep into his bones and start to dry his clothes and sodden hair. It was most welcome after his disturbing afternoon in the scenes of crimes past, in the rain.

After a few minutes, Javert took up the poker and began to stoke the fire, coaxing the coals to more life. As he stared into the grate, he could almost see foreboding images amongst the flames, faces from the past whom he would not forget, shadowy figures which he did not recognize. The smuggling ring, this news of Patron-Minette, they were all even more unsettling when he considered them in the safety of the home he had made with Valjean. 

_Who are you,_ he asked of the fire. _Show yourselves, if you dare_.

A soft thump startled him out of his reverie. Javert turned; Valjean's book had fallen to the floor. Smiling despite himself, Javert got to his knees to retrieve it. Valjean frowned in his sleep, shifting restlessly as if he was about to come awake; a lock of his white hair had come loose, and Javert reached out to push it back.

Valjean's eyelids flickered under Javert's touch, and Javert found his fingers lingering. How many times had he traced the man's familiar face with his eyes and hands? He had certainly done so with his thoughts for almost twenty years, ever since Montreuil, when he had been trying to puzzle out the mayor's identity; now, even after eight years together, he still marvelled that he was allowed to do so in person. 

That this good man had been hunted by Javert for years and could forgive him for it was still a matter of astonishment. Even more astonishing was the reality that Valjean had saved him from the river and welcomed Javert into his house and bed, at tremendous risk to himself.

Javert knew he owed Valjean his life, owed him everything that was good in this life. It was unthinkable that anyone could seek to threaten Valjean — he would sooner kill than allow it — 

“That was quite a declaration, my dear. If I were a criminal, it would have filled me with terror."

With a start, Javert saw that Valjean had opened his eyes and was looking at him in bemusement. Belatedly, he also realised he had spoken aloud.

“Forgive me. I did not mean to wake you.”

“There is nothing to forgive," Valjean said, smiling faintly. "Only old men ought to be napping at this hour; as you are fond of telling me, I am not yet so old.”

Javert took a step back, stifling a groan as his bad leg protested. “Indeed, you are not.”

As he limped over to the chair beside Valjean's, his friend asked him, slowly, “Javert, of whom were you speaking just now? You sounded very troubled. I have never heard you so fierce.”

Javert took his cravat off and started to loosen his still-damp shirt-sleeves so he could think about what to say. He did not wish to worry the man with news of smugglers and Patron-Minette; Valjean would be overly concerned about his, Javert's, safety, and heedless over his own.

He decided to tell Valjean part of the truth. Surely he could not be faulted if what he conveyed was not strictly a lie? “It is about work. I do not wish to trouble you with it.”

“It is no trouble," said Valjean, steadily. "As you know, I would gladly bear your burdens, in the same way as you burden yourself with mine.”

“I do not see the children as a burden,” Javert began, and remembered that he was an excruciatingly bad liar.

It was too late to recover; Valjean was frowning again, and his face had gone ruddy in the firelight.

Javert was not entirely certain as to the moral hazard of keeping information from his companion — but he had no wish to worry the man, not with the children coming to stay.

It suddenly struck Javert: oh God, the children were coming to stay _here_ , in Rue Plumet with Valjean and Javert, at a time where dangerous criminals were on the loose in his city.

Valjean had started to speak, his mouth tight with unhappiness, “You are not... not still unsettled about the children, are you? I know it will be an imposition, and you are very good to agree to take them in with us this summer.”

“It is not a matter of goodness,” Javert muttered. His brain was racing. Would the children be in more danger if they were to reside in Rue Plumet as planned, where he and Valjean could keep a vigilant eye on them? Or better for them to be at the Gillenormand house in Filles-du-Calvaire, so that they would be out of harm’s way, far from any ill-wishers who might be on the lookout for Commissary Javert?

"Then I don't understand," Valjean said, slowly. "Tell me what has unnerved you so."

"It is nothing," Javert muttered. Another mistake: he could see it in Valjean's face. 

Valjean said, neutrally, "Well, if it is truly nothing, then it should not detain us further. You should get out of these wet things, and I will see what Toussaint has left us for dinner."

He rose from his chair. He did not offer to assist Javert in removing the aforesaid clothing — as he might otherwise have done on another day when Javert had not twice blatantly lied to him — and stalked from the room.


	11. An Apology

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note the rating for this chapter ;)

“I am sorry to have upset you,” Javert offered, late that night, his head hanging low. “But truly, it is not the children that are concerning me.”

“I believe you.” Jean turned on his side and laid out his hand in invitation for Javert to join him in the bed. Arguments were unfamiliar to them these days, at least ones that lasted more than an hour or two, and he did not wish to go to sleep on one. Javert, thankfully, seemed to agree, for he climbed willingly into his side of the bed and pressed his lips to Jean’s hand.

“Goodnight, my dear,” Jean murmured, brushing his knuckles against Javert’s cheek.

“Goodnight, Jean.”

If he had believed, however, that the matter was settled, Jean soon found that it was not. For four days, Javert lapsed into one of his dark episodes and barely spent any time at home. When he did, he was distant and quieter than usual, and although Jean reminded himself that he was used to these black moods by now, Javert’s unwillingness to spend the time with him still hurt. It always had done, and he supposed it always would. The only way he could console himself was to remember that so far, Javert had always come back to him.

On Tuesday, the day of Cosette’s dinner, Jean brought Javert a cup of coffee before he woke, and sat on the edge of the bed, turning the last few days over in his mind. In such usual circumstances, Jean would not have pushed for Javert to attend any social occasion. This event was important, though, and he hoped to gauge by Javert’s reaction as to whether the children were in fact the source of his troubles. Reaching out a hesitant hand, he shook Javert awake. It was the first time he had touched him in days.

Javert woke reluctantly, as he always did, and in the moment of blankness that followed his waking, he almost smiled at Jean. Then the guardedness returned to his eyes and he blinked rapidly.

“Coffee for you.” Jean tilted his head. “It is early yet. I am sorry to wake you.”

“It is quite all right,” Javert said carefully, pushing himself to sit up. He picked up the coffee and held it tightly between his hands, gazing down into its depths.

“It is Cosette’s dinner tonight,” Jean said, after a moment of awkward silence. “We’re to discuss the plan for the children and the holiday.”

“Ah,” Javert’s brow twitched and he did not meet Jean’s eye, “Well –”

“You need not come,” Jean said. “I will make your excuses.”

Javert made a sound that was almost a groan and squeezed his eyes shut. He was so difficult to read when he was like this.

“I will be there,” Javert said, and reached out hesitantly to grasp Jean’s hand. He was warm from the heat of the coffee and Jean did not wish for him to let go. 

“I’ve behaved terribly these last few days. I apologise for it,” Javert muttered, and then he went quiet again. Jean nodded and removed himself from the room. It was almost over.

Javert was as good as his word, even taking the time to send a note from the station to say that he would be late, and would make his own way to the Pontmercy mansion. Jean met him at the door, and was pleasantly surprised to be a given a kiss for his trouble. Javert’s lips lingered against his, and when Javert finally drew away, there was a hint of a smile playing on his face.

“What was that for?” Jean asked, helping Javert out of his coat.

“If you need to ask, perhaps I did not do it correctly,” Javert said gruffly. “I did not know I was so out of practice.”

Before Jean could reply, Emile appeared from Marius’ study and bowed politely. He alone of the children had been allowed to stay awake to greet Javert, much to Fantine’s disgust.

“Good evening, monsieur,” Emile said. “Did you have a good day at work?”

“I did, thank you. Was your own day – satisfactory?”

“Oh yes,” Emile grinned, “Monsieur Dubois says I am ready to start learning English!”

“Congratulations,” Javert said; “A worthy endeavour.”

Emile beamed, and Jean took that opportunity to shepherd him up the stairs to the nursey. The boy went willingly, glowing with actual praise from Javert, no doubt.

“The boy will be well educated, better than his father even,” Javert mused, as they made their way through to the dining room.

“I believe that is Marius’ wish. Cosette wants the same for Fantine, although I do not know how Fantine feels about the prospect of being tied to a desk.”

“Monsieur Javert!” Marius leapt to his feet and came to take Javert’s hand. “Thank you so much for agreeing to take the children.”

Jean felt Javert stiffen at the overly jovial tone, and put a reassuring hand on his arm as Marius, always endearingly oblivious, continued to chatter on.

“Enough, darling.” Cosette spotted the same boiling pot and swept over to move Marius away. “Monsieur Javert has had a long day, and you are being very loud!”

Marius only laughed and blushed good-naturedly before he took his place at the table and invited them all to do the same.

Cosette and Marius had a great many ideas and things to tell them, and Jean fielded all the conversation, to allow Javert the chance to only listen. His partner ate steadily, better than he had for days, and indeed said nothing, but whenever Jean turned to look at him, he knew Javert was listening and would interject if he saw fit. Cosette and Marius, used to Javert by now, did not push to include him, and Jean felt his heart swell. How lucky he was to have this. To be discussing his grandchildren, taking them away on holiday, with his partner by his side. Something was still bothering Javert, he knew, but the man’s presence here reassured him it was not the children. At least, not entirely, and that was more than he could have hoped for.

“We are very grateful,” Marius told them one more time, as they prepared to leave later, and his voice was serious for once. “To know we have you, the both of you – we are very fortunate.”

Cosette kissed them both goodbye and cradled Jean’s cheek in her hand, just for a moment. She had always been able to tell when Javert was having one of his episodes, and Jean had never hidden anything from her in that respect.

When they got home, Javert divested himself of his coat and turned to help Jean with his, running his hands lightly up Jean’s arms and squeezing his shoulders. 

“I’ve been an ass,” Javert mumbled.

“It is all right.”

“It is not,” Javert growled. “But let me begin to make it up to you.”

He drew Jean up the stairs behind him, clinging tightly to his hand, and Jean followed him willingly. Javert always came back to him in the end. 

“I’m sorry,” Javert said again, when they reached the door of the bedroom.

“Enough apologies now,” Jean breathed, as Javert lifted his hand to his lips and kissed it. He lingered there, long enough for Jean to feel the warmth gather in his stomach, and he was left in no doubt of Javert’s intentions when finally he dropped Jean’s hand and reached to untie his cravat. His throat bared to Javert’s mouth, Jean rolled his head as those lips came to press against his pounding pulse, and when Javert began to suck at his neck, Jean had to push him away.

“Perhaps we should retire,” he smiled, as Javert seemed to realise that they had not actually yet reached the bedroom.

“If you insist,” Javert muttered, flinging the door open and pulling Jean behind him. There was just time for Jean to push the door closed with his foot before Javert was kissing his neck again, his hands running down Jean’s back to tug his shirt free from his trousers, and sliding underneath to touch the warm flesh of Jean’s back. Javert’s hands were large, but they touched the scars on Jean’s back with a reverence that had used to make Jean weep. It did not happen so much now, but Javert never forgot himself; no matter how heated their touches might be, he was always gentle there.

And it was heated, there and then, Javert pressed so close that Jean could feel his erection against his thigh. Only a week or so since they were together, but Javert was always desperate to be touched and to touch, even after all of their years together. He had been starved for too long of affection, and Jean had never begrudged him his need to know that he was still wanted. How could he begrudge Javert, when he himself knew something of the fear that, soon, all would be taken away from him? And besides all of that, he could never deny Javert anything.

He allowed Javert to undress him by the fire that Toussaint had thoughtfully stoked before she went home, and did not protest when Javert stripped himself, quick and efficient, even though Jean would have liked to help. There was not time for that tonight, he understood. This was Javert’s last apology.

He shivered as Javert drew him to the bed and laid him down, then climbed in beside him and took hold of his cock.

Jean groaned as Javert gripped him, sure and strong, working him so quickly that he feared he would not have long to enjoy it. With difficulty, he stayed Javert’s hand, and spoke quickly, to assure any doubts Javert might otherwise have had as to how he felt.

“Slow down, my dear,” he murmured. “We have time.”

Javert kissed him by way of apology and played his fingers over the tip of Jean’s cock, collecting the moisture there and spreading it, until all was slick and burning. He returned to his wringing stroke, so slow now it was almost a torture; Jean felt his toes curl and he reached out blindly. Javert came willingly, pressing against Jean, his head in the crook of Jean’s neck, mouthing the skin there he had already made sensitive. Jean’s cock jerked and he tangled a hand in Javert’s hair, anything to anchor himself.

It was all heat and friction after that, as Javert stroked him and rubbed against his thigh, and when they were both panting and breathless, Javert squeezed Jean’s balls, and he came, messily, over his stomach. Javert bent to lick up the mess, lingering until Jean had to push him away. It was too much. Instead he reached out and laid his hand on Javert, and his touch was enough to send Javert over the edge too. 

Javert collapsed at his side and kissed his ear, his hair, his cheek, anywhere he could reach with his lips. He fell asleep with his lips against Jean’s cheek, then woke again moments later when Jean tried to reach the blankets. 

“Let me,” Javert murmured, only half awake, moving his long legs to pull the blankets up around them.

Nestled together, closer than they had been for a week, Javert spoke once more before he fell into a deep slumber.

“Whatever I do, Jean Valjean, it is for you.”

Jean would not tell him how long he lay and pondered those words, until long after the fire had burned down.


	12. A Very Awkward Welcoming Committee

The time had come. The passage had been booked, the suitcases were packed, the carriage had been made ready. There was no reason to put off the matter any further.

Of course Valjean had gone to the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire to collect the children. Javert wished he had insisted on accompanying his friend. If he had done so, he would not be standing stiffly by the open door of No. 55, with Toussaint by his side, like the most awkward welcoming committee in France.

He wondered if he should not have worn his uniform after all. He had dressed for work out of force of habit; it was only after he had done up all the brass buttons, and Valjean reminded him what the date was, that he realised he had given himself the day off. 

Too late now. Perhaps it was fitting that he would receive the Pontmercy children into the house garbed as if he was about to face a firing squad.

Beside him, Toussaint fidgeted with the strings of her apron. Her usually placid countenance was filled with barely-disguised excitement. “Do you think they will be much longer, Inspector?” she asked, for the third time.

“Surely not,” Javert responded, again for the third time. “Monsieur Fauchelevent left an hour ago to fetch them from the Marais. Certainly they will be here very soon.” 

Toussaint looked sideways at him. “That is true. My apologies, Monsieur. I just cannot wait to see them!”

Javert suppressed a sigh. Well, that made one of them. 

His thoughts were interrupted by the long-anticipated sound of carriage wheels in the path outside. Toussaint let out a pleased sound, and Javert sighed and followed her down the front steps.

As they approached the gate, a cacophony of shrill little voices lifted into the air.

“Let me out, the little ones want to see —“

“Fantine, I was to be the first —!”

“—no, no, _no_!” 

“Down, down!”

“Children, children, if you please!” Marius’ voice sounded ragged around the edges, as if the short journey from the Marais had been eventful indeed. The front gate was pushed open, and then an eruption of children issued forth.

Émile staggered up the path, carrying a trunk that looked much too heavy for him, as well as a book-bag that was full to the bursting. He wore a thick hat and coat that was unsuitable for the summer; most likely his parents’ attempt to ensure their delicate eldest child was protected against the non-existent cold weather. He also wore an expression of fraternal dismay.

The cause of said expression was undoubtedly his little sister. Fantine had shouldered her way in front of him, unencumbered as she was by either luggage or unseasonal clothing. The one thing she was carrying was a large, enclosed wicker basket, which she was using to impede Émile’s progress up the path.

“Fantine, _you agreed_ , I’m the oldest!”

“The little ones should be the first! They all want to meet Orri! You’ve already seen him, Émile, let them have their turn!”

“Children, please, stop shoving one another. There is no prize for being first into the house. What has gotten into the both of you?” Marius hurried up the path to intercept them. He was weighed down with a trunk and several valises and a hat-box in varying shades of pink that appeared to all belong to Fantine. He was hatless, and his hair stood on end. Javert wondered how this man, who was otherwise a competent lawyer and respected political activist, could be placed in such a state by his own children, but such offspring-engendered chaos nevertheless seemed to occur to Marius with alarming frequency. 

“Down! Want down!” announced Georges, gesturing cheerfully from the vantage point of his nurse’s arms. The middle-aged woman surveyed the garden around her suspiciously as if it was filled with snakes and other wild beasts out to attack her little charge.

“Not you, rascal,” said Cosette, sweeping into the garden upon Valjean’s arm and taking the baby from his nurse. “Come along, everyone, the hour grows late and Papa and I must be away very soon.”

Fantine paused, clearly torn between wanting to race Émile into the house with her basket full of kittens, and the opportunity to throw a dramatic weeping fit over her mother’s impeding departure. Émile took the opportunity to squeeze ahead of her at the front steps, and Javert went to intercept him.

“Good morning, Émile. What’s all this about, then?” 

Émile shook Javert’s proffered hand, looking slightly sheepish. “I’m sorry, Monsieur. I — Fantine — that is to say… it is not important. Please forgive us.”

Javert felt his grimace vanishing as Toussaint knelt beside Fantine. “Hello, Mademoiselle. Have you brought all your kittens to Rue Plumet?”

“Yes!” Fantine said. “One for the three of us and one for Grand-père makes four, of course. I also wanted to bring Mama Lise, but Aunt Gillenormand will be lonely without her.”

“Indeed, that’s for the best,” Toussaint said; the family would be not ready for another litter of kittens quite so soon after the first, and certainly Javert had no desire for Orri to become a father under such circumstances. “What are all their names?”

“The little orange one is _Fifi_ , and Émile has called his _Robinson Crusoe_ after this English book he has been reading. I think Grand-père wanted Monsieur Javert to select the name for their kitten, but Papa has been calling him _Tonnerre_ because of his deep growl. And mine …” Fantine grinned, and whispered in Toussaint’s ear, and then Toussaint was laughing too.

“How amusing,” Toussaint said, and straightened up. “Would you like me to help you with the basket, Mademoiselle?”

“Please,” Fantine said, prettily. Javert took Émile’s suitcase from him, and the four of them crossed the threshold together in an egalitarian fashion.

Marius and the footman carried the bags up to the rooms that had been newly readied: the small room which Émile and Fantine were to share, and the attic which would house George and his nurse. The kittens would be given a place in the kitchens, but doubtless they would make their way up to the children’s bedroom, much as it had become Orri’s habit to spend the night at the foot of Valjean’s and Javert’s bed.

Orri sniffed at the four nimble little things that had suddenly invaded the house. Then he turned up his nose and stalked off in search of more interesting pursuits. The four kittens followed after, excitedly, and Javert could have sworn that Orri sighed, too.

Cosette pronounced herself entirely satisfied with the arrangements. “Papa, you have done wonders readying the house for the children! I believe they will be so happy and content here this summer. Thank you so much.”

“The thanks belong to Toussaint and Javert,” Valjean said, self-effacingly. “Toussaint saw to all the new linens and room arrangements, and Javert had our carpenter construct the new safety devices you see around the fireplace and upon the stairs.” 

“I know Georges is walking very well these days, but it is still better to be safe than sorry,” Javert began, and was bemused when Cosette pressed a kiss to his cheek.

“Thank you, Javert,” she whispered. “I know Papa will look after the children with his own life, but I trust you to keep _everyone_ safe.”

Javert cleared his throat. “I will certainly try,” he said. “I wish you both a good voyage, and a successful visit.”

“And a speedy return!” Cosette said, and winked at him. Javert was so taken aback by her teasing that he entirely failed to notice Valjean’s approach until he felt warm fingers clasp his hand. 

While Cosette and Marius were bidding a lengthy farewell to their offspring and the respective kittens, Valjean murmured, “You look very well in your uniform, but perhaps you would like to change into something more comfortable for our mid-day meal? It smells as if Toussaint has prepared a feast.”

Javert snorted, refusing to rise to the bait. “I would not scandalise your son-in-law or your daughter by changing my usual attire until they are back in their carriage and headed for Calais. And in any case, changing one’s dress just for lunch is the sort of thing the idle bourgeoisie does. A diligent policeman would gladly suffer the dignity of the uniform at all times, even in his own house.”

Valjean smiled his small, rare smile. “Then perhaps afterwards you would allow me to assist in the removal of the uniform?” he suggested, innocently. “I believe Georges is due for his nap after luncheon, and I have told the children that grandfathers, as well as little brothers, similarly need their forty winks before dinner.”


	13. Happy Pandemonium

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted a day earlier than usual because I'm super busy tomorrow and I didn't want to let you all down :D

The next day, a Saturday, was also the start of the nurse’s weekend off, and Jean woke early to allow her to leave in good time. He wasn’t early enough, however; by the time he got downstairs, he found Georges balanced on a cushion at the kitchen table. Toussaint had given him a bowl of porridge and, bravely, his own spoon to feed himself with. Georges was unused to this freedom, but was doing an admirable job, if one ignored the porridge on the floor and in his hair and on the table. Toussaint, who was already putting dough by the fire to rise, seemed unfazed by this mess.

“Mademoiselle Dupin had a long day of travelling ahead of her,” Toussaint shrugged. “I told her last night that I would come in time for her to make a good start.”

“Thank you.” Jean attempted to find a spot on his grandson’s head to kiss that was not covered, failed and settled instead for patting his tiny shoulder. “I did not even think to ask her what time she would like to leave.”

“You have much to think of, monsieur.” Toussaint poured cup of coffee and pushed it into his hands before he asked for it. “Go. We are quite happy here together, are we not, petit?”

Georges chuckled and shovelled another spoonful into his mouth. He was getting the hang of it already.

Jean took the coffee upstairs, pausing to peek in at Émile and Fantine. At some point in the night, Fantine had migrated to Émile’s bed, and they shared the same pillow with a harmony they did not usually enjoy. They would sleep a while yet; he had heard them whispering long into the night.

He closed that door and opened another, stepping back into his bedroom. Javert was a barely visible lump under the blankets, snoring soundly. It had been strange last night to see Javert go into his own bedroom, for the sake of appearances for Mademoiselle Dupin. Even the minutes before he had slipped through the adjoining door had been too long, and Jean had been happy to drag him back to his rightful place at his side.

He had thought Javert might be stirring by now, but as he was not, Jean only kissed his hair and made a hasty retreat, sipping at the coffee himself. Who knew how many of their mornings would be this peaceful? 

Back downstairs, he swept a cleaned-up Georges from his seat and, leaving the house in the custody of Toussaint, dressed the boy for the outside.

“Walking, Grand-père?” Georges asked, as they made their way to the street. “Where we going?”  
“Grand-père has some errands,” Jean said, reaching down to take the small hand that was offered to him. Lately, Georges had been insisting on walking, but he would soon tire and they would be able to move faster. 

“Errands, errands with Grand-père,” Georges repeated.

Jean was sure they made a funny sight, the boy barely past his knee walking so determinedly at his side, but he did not mind it. Indeed, as Georges squealed and pointed out the birds, the cats, the leaves on the trees and on the ground, Jean was aware of the smiles their fellow early birds gave them. Georges was angelic-looking, that was true, and impossible to look badly upon, and Jean felt the familiar sweet tang of pride as he walked at his grandson’s side.

By three streets over, Georges was beginning to slow down and then came the inevitable, “Up, please, Grand-père.”

Cosette was trying to discourage this lately, as the little one got older, but Cosette was far away and Jean would hardly be inconvenienced by Georges’ feather weight. He picked the boy up and set him on his shoulders.

“Hold tight.”

Georges obediently fixed his hands in the anchor of his hair, and Jean reached up one hand of his own to hold a small leg securely. From his perch, there were a whole myriad of new things for Georges to see, and he chattered constantly as Jean walked.

They went first to purchase the newspaper, and several magazines that had been on hold for them, then they went to the bookshop. Here he bought two small books, one with a red and one with a green cover. The red was ‘Thumbelina’ for Fantine, and the green a notebook for Émile. The boy had been so taken with Javert’s notebook last night that Jean thought it would be good for Émile to have his own. 

“And what would you like, mon petit?” Jean touched Georges’ hand, “A present, for being so good.”

“Chocolate.”

Chocolate duly purchased, Jean turned for home and hoped his grandson would attempt to keep the chocolate mostly in his mouth. The sun was already strong as they walked, bright in his eyes and as he lifted a hand to shade them, Jean’s mind drifted to another child who had ridden on his shoulders, so many years ago it could have been a dream.

His oldest nephew he had toted like this, at the end of a long day when the boy had brought him his lunch and lingered until the end of the day. The child had been little older than Émile then. Jean tightened his grip on Georges; it was still difficult to convince himself that he deserved any of this, and the boy’s weight on his shoulders was both a comfort and an unexpected burden.

He stopped, put his purchases on a wall and swung Georges down. His little face was not entirely covered in chocolate, and Jean kissed him, holding him as tightly as he could without hurting him. Georges, oblivious to anything except the warm arms, giggled and tugged on Jean’s beard and as the moment passed, history faded a little once more.

“Come on,” Jean said, “Let’s go and wake the sleepers.”

“Wake ‘em up!”

They did not, as it turned out, have to wake anyone. As Jean opened the front door, Fantine appeared and attached herself to his leg, none the worse it seemed, for her late night. 

“Grand-père, come on! It’s time for breakfast but Monsieur Javert said we had to wait for you. I’m starving!”

She was gone as quickly as she had come, and Jean followed her to the kitchen to find a state of happy pandemonium. Toussaint was performing her usual duties, tending to the breakfast and putting cakes in the oven as she wove between Émile who was laid flat on the floor, teasing the kittens, Fantine who was following her every step like a shadow, and Javert who sat in his shirtsleeves, watching it all in quiet bemusement.

“Good morning, everyone.” Jean put Georges down, and winced as he went straight to his brother and stepped on him. Émile complained and pulled Georges to the floor where he could do no damage, except to help wind the kittens into a state of frenzy. 

“Good morning.” Javert was the only one to answer him, and Jean dropped a kiss on the top of his head. Javert was looking at him very strangely, and spoke under the noise.

“Are you well? You look – odd.”

“Later.” Jean did not wish to ruin this moment of bliss with talk of the past. Javert made a sound in his throat but did not press matters further. Jean knew this would not be forgotten though, and was proved correct when, later in the afternoon, Javert pushed him into a corner that was, momentarily, child-free.

“What was wrong? This morning?”

“You’ll think me foolish.”

“I often do,” Javert said, but there was no bite to it, and Jean wound his fingers through the offered hand and allowed himself to be pulled into the library and propelled to his chair. Javert knelt at his side.

“Your knee –”

“It is nothing,” Javert said. “Why are you not overcome with joy at this mad arrangement? I thought it would make you happy.”

“I am happy,” Jean murmured, “I just – need time. To adjust. To have so many small ones around all at once- it reminds me of – times gone by. Times I did not think I even remembered.”

There was a beat of silence, and he dared look up to find that Javert was watching him intently, and he realised too late that his eyes were damp.

“It is not foolish,” Javert said after a moment, offering his own handkerchief from his pocket. “You are likely to remember them, when something happens to remind you.”

“I know.” Jean wiped at his eyes and squeezed Javert’s hand. “And I am happy, do not fear about that. It will not take long until I am better adjusted, I promise you.”

Javert raised their entwined hands and kissed Jean’s knuckles, and then the peace was gone as the door flew open and Fantine appeared, chased by four kittens and Orri, who was at least trying to pretend that he was not chasing, but only watching. 

“Grand-père, help!” she squealed, launching herself onto his lap to escape her pursuers. “They won’t leave me alone!”

The kittens gathered at Jean’s feet, gazing up, mesmerised, and he could make neither head nor tail of it until Javert reached across to Fantine and untangled something that was hanging from her dress. He came away with the offending item; the crude mouse on a string that Émile had been teasing the animals with that morning. 

“Oh,” Fantine said, then began to laugh as Javert tossed the toy to the kittens and they turned away to fight over it. She buried her face in Jean’s neck, chuckling, and he began to laugh too, feeling all of the tension in his shoulders give way.

“I shall have a word with your brother.” Javert hauled himself to his feet, only wincing slightly as he did. “I cannot imagine he will be chastised by any other person in this house.”

His small smile, as he said it, only made Jean want to laugh more.


	14. A Break in the Case

_Finally._

Policemen were all too well acquainted with investigations that did not progress despite investments of manpower and effort, with lines of enquiry that were followed at length without success, with cases that remained open indefinitely, with no end in sight.

Javert had been rather concerned this would turn out to be one of those investigations. 

For weeks on end, his men had pursued inquiries across the length and breadth of the 47th quartier. They had visited the various perfumeries and jewellers and purveyors of antiques, and interviewed proprietors at length as to the provenance of their goods. They had perused hundreds of pages of inventories and receipts and documents of title, all of which had to be accurately tallied with the proprietary stock-in-trade. 

In the course of these inquiries, Inspector Lavalle had happened upon a long-running fraud: the young man entrusted with operations at Antiques Levesque on the Rue Cuvier had been falsifying the accounting records for years under the nose of his elderly employer. 

“Well done,” Javert had said to his young officer. “At least some good has come of this wild-goose chase.”

Lavalle had nodded seriously. His hat made him look older than he was; when he had first been posted to the Rue Pontoise station-house, the more seasoned men had taken him for a beardless youngster who had the connections to secure himself an inspector’s rank. But he had proven to be a competent and courageous officer, working his way up in the ranks steadily and without favours from anyone, and had shown an eye for detail which had stood him in good stead in this particular fraud case.

“Crime is crime, Monsieur,” he had said firmly. “Perhaps this did not further our smuggling case, but I’m pleased we made an arrest anyway.”

“Yes. At least this is one case which we are able to close.” Javert had wondered if he would be able to say the same about the mysterious smuggling ring that so concerned the Ministry of Commerce and Manufacturing. Perhaps these concerns were something which La Douane had imagined out of a surfeit of suspicion – after all, these border control officers were known for their general distrust for all those dwelling beyond France’s borders. Certainly, there was absolutely no sign that Claquesous, Montparnasse, or the remnants of the Patron-Minette, were involved in any way.

It often happened in this way with investigations. Matters would not progress for weeks, even months, and then suddenly there would be an event -- a sudden lead, a tip-off, a witness -- that would break the case wide open.

When François burst into his office that morning, Javert assumed his desk sergeant was bringing his mid-day despatches. One look at the young man’s countenance made him instantly reassess that conclusion.

“Inspector, there may be a break in the La Douane case!”

 _Finally._ Javert got to his feet, the thrill of the chase rising fiercely within him. “Where are we going?” he asked, reaching for his coat and hat.

 

* * *

 

Guegan Antiquités was a small antiques shop on the ground floor of a tenanted building in the less reputable end of Rue Poliveau. Its weathered window-frames and darkened interiors had clearly seen better days. It stood between a second-hand clothing store and a door with no shop-plate, which had been secured using a chain.

When Javert and François arrived, Lavalle and his team had obviously been there for some time. They had formed an informal ring around the hapless proprietor, who was sitting on a stool in front of his desk, wringing his hands. Someone had drawn the shutters in the shop, screening their presence from curious passers-by in the street.

“…think of your wife and children, Monsieur,” Lavalle was saying. “With you in remand at La Force, how will they feed themselves? And then there is the matter of your trial for theft, and knowingly dealing in stolen property…”

“I did not steal the items, M. l’Inspecteur,” the man said, unhappily. “I paid good money, I swear it! Please have mercy, I will not last a day at La Force.”

Lavalle and the other officers rose to their feet as Javert approached. “M. le Commissaire,” the young inspector said, briskly, “may I present to you Monsieur Guegan of this establishment. It seems he has come into some items of jewellery of English origin which he should not have.”

“I can see that,” Javert said. He looked Guegan up and down: the small, neatly dressed man was sweating in a way that denoted something was not quite right. Lavalle clearly had the right instinct, and it seemed he had amassed some evidence. And yet… 

He turned to Lavalle. “Inspector, I would not ordinarily interfere with your investigative techniques, but it is not in order to refer to a man’s wife and children in this way. That is not how we do things in our district. A family’s well-being is not something to be trifled with.”

“Yes, M. le Commissaire,” Lavalle said, looking both taken aback and crestfallen; Guegan looked almost pathetically grateful. 

Javert turned back to the proprietor, favouring him with a meaningful smile. It was gratifying to see that expression had not lost its touch, particularly when he was not meaning for it to be friendly.

“So, Monsieur Guegan, please assist us in assisting you. You say you purchased these items. From whom did you do so, and did he give you a receipt?”

Guegan wrung his hands again. “He said his name was Rennes. He did not give me a receipt, which was why when I was asked for my books the first time, I felt compelled to tell the Inspector that the items were part of my usual shipment from Smiths & Sons in London.”

“Did you think we would not discover the truth?” Javert remarked. “It is an offence to lie to the police, Monsieur. I think I do not need to revisit mentions of remand, but you may imagine yourself in a rather difficult position at present.”

“M. le Commissaire, I beg of you!” Guegan looked as if he would fall to his knees; Javert took a step back in self-preservation. “I will do anything I can. I would never have accepted jewellery without proof of provenance, or a receipt, but these were early Georgian, and very rare, and Monsieur Rennes said if I did not accept his terms he would offer them to Maison Frédéric Daniel instead.”

Javert sighed. “Do you know how to contact this Monsieur Rennes?”

“I have seen him in this district from time to time,” Guegan said, miserably. “A well-turned out gentleman, dark haired, bright-eyed, nicely spoken.”

Javert frowned as those words conjured an image: a fashionably dressed youth of under twenty with a pretty face and glossy dark hair; a cold-blooded killer. “How old do you believe this man to be?”

“He looks barely twenty-one, M. le Commissaire. But he speaks knowledgeably, and I believe he is actually much older.” Noticing Javert’s interest, Guegan added, “I do not know where he lives, Monsieur, but I could help find out.”

Javert wondered if Guegan was clever enough, or desperate enough, to agree to participate in a police entrapment operation. He said, briskly, “See that you do indeed help us, Monsieur. Lavalle, convey him to the station-house and see if he can make an identification from the Patron-Minette files. Quietly, so that the man’s neighbours are none the wiser.”

 

* * *

 

It was quite late when Javert returned to Rue Plumet. There had been a sizeable amount of paperwork arising from the Guegan arrest -- he had decided not to formally alert the Ministry of Commerce just yet, but he had sent word to Desmarais that he would call on the Prefecture later in the week to update him informally. 

There was much to do; he was keeping the hours he kept because of the work, not because there were any other reasons at all to stay away from home.

This last thought gave Javert pause at the threshold of No. 55. He had, after all, promised to be truthful to Valjean, and to himself. In that spirit, he had to cautiously admit that those other reasons were not, after all, entirely irrelevant.

However, the children had in fact been reasonably well behaved for the past three days, even Fantine -- that is, ever since the incident with the newspapers and the little kitten called Fifi. Javert had no reason not to expect the household would be in decent order upon his return.

Much to his surprise, all was indeed peaceful. Nurse had taken Georges up to bed, and Fantine was busy shadowing Toussaint, who was spending one of her late evenings at Rue Plumet putting the house to rights. 

Valjean had met him at the door and pressed his hand tightly; Javert made a note to himself to spend some time later that evening discussing the recent developments in the La Douane case, and the possible identification of the criminal formerly known as Montparnasse.

But in the meantime, there was a covered pie for dinner. Émile sat at table with Valjean and Javert and spoke to them about his newest book. 

“It is about a family who are shipwrecked together on an island,” he said. “God rescues them from a storm, and they come up with many inventive ways to survive. They plant food, and rescue animals, and they even build a tree house!”

Valjean smiled his faint, benevolent smile, which Javert knew was so different from his own. “God is very merciful,” he told Émile. “And the human spirit is indeed inventive!” He glanced across the table at Javert. “In much the same way, families all over the world find their way to survive sudden changes to their world, and thrive, even.”

Émile looked gratified at his grandfather’s comments. Javert held Valjean’s amused regard, and felt the corners of his own mouth lift of their own accord. 

It was true. Against all expectations and by God’s grace, he, Commissiary Javert, seemed to have survived this particular shipwreck, and to now look upon this strange new island of children and a multitude of kittens as the adventure that it truly was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It seems most of the antiques and jewellers of fashionable 19th century Paris were mostly found [in the Marais](http://www.silvercollection.it/ASCASPARISIANING.html), and in any case, [not located](http://www.indiana.edu/~paris10/ParisOSS/D7Haussmann/d3_Pinkney_2_Paris_Before_Haussmann_The_Poor.html) [ in the 47th district](http://afriendinparis.com/tag/19th-century/).
> 
> Esteven suggested there would be some small shops along the [rue Cuvier](https://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rue_Cuvier) along the Jardin des plantes between the museums, simply because people might like to stroll along there before entering the Jardin. (To the other side of the Jardin is rue Buffon, but it also housed a small stream, the Bievre which was used by the manufacturers, therefore it was smelly…)
> 
> For small shops (where the owners would not ask too much), she suggested the rue Poliveau towards the Place de l’hôpital might be an idea. Here is a illustration of [ the Boulevard de l’hôpital in 1822](https://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Boulevard_de_l%27H%C3%B4pital#/media/File:Boulevard_de_l%27H%C3%B4pital_by_Christophe_Civeton_1822.jpg).
> 
> Émile, of course, is reading the 1824 French translation of [The Swiss Family Robinson.](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Swiss_Family_Robinson)


	15. Some Truths, and a Journey Begins

“I must speak to you.” Javert caught Jean’s arm as he descended the stairs, a serious look on his face. 

The house was quiet, with the children abed and Toussaint on her way home, and when Javert drew him onto the library, Jean saw that he had already made some tea and placed it by the fireplace. It was a warm evening and there was nothing in the grate to sit by, but Jean thought he understood Javert’s reasoning. It was here that they had always talked, ever since the early days, about anything that was important. 

Jean took his seat and allowed Javert to pour him a cup. Javert was in his shirtsleeves, a sight that was rare, but the children had steered him towards a more casual attire, at least at home. It was easier, Javert had conceded, to change a stained shirt than it was to have Toussaint battle a dirty uniform jacket. Jean liked it; it made the man softer, somehow. He might have told Javert that at any other time, but now was not the time, with Javert wanting to discuss something serious. The children had done nothing wrong, these past few days, but perhaps – 

“Please do not be concerned,” Javert said, picking up his own cup and settling into his chair, “I merely wish to tell you a little of the case I am engaged with.”

Jean let out a breath and nodded. “Very well,” he said. “You can be very ominous when you do not share what is on your mind.”

Javert gave a rueful smile of his own and sipped his tea.

“I apologise,” he said, then began to speak. He told Jean about the case, the smuggling, the leads that had gone nowhere. Jean listened and nodded each time that Javert paused. It did explain, to a certain extent, why Javert had been so distracted of late.

“Well, my dear, I am not surprised you have been busy,” Jean said, glancing at the clock on the mantle. It was late, and Fantine had risen early these past few days, in need of supervision, of course.

“There is more, the thing that I wish for you to know.”

If Javert had noticed Jean’s wandering eyes, he did not comment and Jean felt a twinge of guilt. Had he not promised to give Javert all the time that he needed this summer?

“Please.”

“I am – that is to say, I have long suspected that the men truly responsible for this enterprise are known to me. To us.”

“Who?”

“Clasquesous, for one. And Montparnesse.”

Jean carefully placed his cup on his saucer and put it on the table. Those names! Shadows from a past he had tried so hard to forget. 

“I am sorry to be so blunt.” Javert leaned forward and took Jean’s hands between his own. His thumb rubbed idle circles, and when he spoke, his voice was low.

“I had little proof of this, besides my own feeling, but today I was given a description of a young man who sounds very much like Montparnesse. You know what they are like, and I am afraid that the closer we get to them, if it is them, the more they will turn and fight their corner.”

“They always make it personal,” Jean murmured, and he understood why Javert had spoken now, “And you are concerned that we – I – will be discovered.”

Javert nodded unhappily, his face half hidden in the candlelight and he was silent for a moment. Then he raised their hands to his mouth and kissed Jean’s knuckles. His breath was warm.

“It is still only speculation at this time, but if I am correct I think it is a good thing that we are bound for the coast. It will not hurt to be out of Paris for the time being.”

Despite Javert’s concerns, Jean took comfort from how very calm he sounded, as though he had already thought hard on all things that had to be considered.

“Do you need to be here?” Jean asked, the idea coming to him that this was Javert’s purpose, to tell him that he would be put somewhere safe whilst Javert risked himself. He was quite ready to argue when Javert shook his head.

“My men are capable,” he said shortly, “And the case is slow moving. I do not see how my staying here will make it move faster. I am too well known to spy now, and too old. Besides, if there is a danger, I would prefer us to be together.”

From upstairs came the sound of two small feet hitting the floorboards and a cry to match them.

“Grand-père!”

Jean was on his feet immediately. Émile had nightmares sometimes, or walked as he slept, and he would only wake Fantine if he was distressed. Jean rushed up the stairs, leaving Javert to clear the tea things and check the doors, as was their habit. Émile was at the door of the bedroom, tears upon his face. He was awake at least, and Jean knelt to embrace him. The boy trembled in his arms.

“I’m sorry, Grand-père. It was an accident.”

Jean noticed then that Émile’s nightshirt was damp with more than sweat. The boy was red faced, embarrassed, and Jean kissed his forehead.

“It is quite alright, mon petit. Come, let us get you cleaned.”

He led Émile to the kitchen, passing Javert on the staircase. Javert did not say a word, only rested his large hand on Émile’s head and continued on his way upstairs, but when Émile had washed and changed his shirt, they went back to find that Javert had changed the sheets on the bed and was perched on the edge of Fantine’s bed. She was awake, of course, for it had been noisy, and Javert was holding her hand.

“See, here Émile’s is, very well. Will you sleep now?”

“Yes, monsieur,” she whispered, “Good night.”

“Good night, mademoiselle.”

He stayed there while Jean settled Émile back into his bed, and they left the room together, stepping into their own bedroom. Javert was silent for a moment and then he rested a hand on Jean’s shoulder.

“For their sakes, perhaps, we should depart sooner rather than later.”

“My own thoughts exactly.”

*

And so it was that three days later, the household was awake early and preparing to catch the carriage to Étaples. 

Jean had hastily accepted an offer to stay in a house owned by a friend of Marius in the small seaside town, four days in the carriage north of Paris. He had been considering the resort anyway for their trip, and the necessity of a quick getaway had forced his choice. It seemed a pleasant enough place to hear about it, and it had beaches, and enough diversions to keep them amused for a few weeks. He had no doubt that Javert would find the place a little stifling, but he would find any such place objectionable after a while, and it would be as good as any other.

The Pontmercy carriage was due at seven, complete with footman and driver to accompany them, and the bags were packed and ready by the front door. Toussaint had done an excellent job of corralling the children into helping with their own things, and they were as ready as they could be. Javert had spent one last night in the station, preparing things for his departure, but he would be back any moment now. Indeed, the biggest challenge would be dragging Fantine away from the kittens.

“But why can’t they come?” she asked again. “They would love the seaside!”

“No they won’t!” Émile snapped, “Cats don’t like water.”

“Grand-père!”

“The kittens are to remain here,” Jean said, as firmly as he could bear. “Orri and Toussaint will care for them. Why, they are on their own special holiday here, are they not?”

Fantine stuck out her bottom lip but she did not cry, which meant that she was considering his words. At that moment, unfortunately, Javert chose to return and Fantine saw a new target. She attached herself to his leg as soon as he stepped through the door.

“Monsieur, can the kittens come, please, they promise they’ll be good!”

Javert blinked, doubtless exhausted from his night shift, and Jean braced himself for the snap and the impatient shake of his leg that was bound to send Fantine into a flood of tears. Instead, he found himself watching, his mouth dry, as Javert crouched to her level and gently shook his head.

“They are so very small,” he said solemnly. “It is already confusing for them to be here and not in their home with their mother. You would not want to upset them more, would you?”

Fantine gulped and shook her head, lifting a hand to wipe at a tear she had been carefully preparing. 

“No. They can stay here. Toussaint, you will play with them every day, won’t you?”

“I promise.”

Crisis averted, the rumble of the carriage was enough to distract Fantine further. There followed ten minutes of bedlam, as the footman and the driver loaded the bags, Émile and Fantine dodging between them and around them. Jean spoke to Toussaint, handed her the keys he had cut for her and the purse of housekeeping money, along with her wages. 

“Thank you, monsieur,” she smiled, “Oh, have such a wonderful time. I will take good care of the house, and the animals.”

“I know,” he pressed her hand, then bent to stroke Orri, who had begun to curl around his feet.

“Be good,” he said. “Set a good example.”

Orri yawned and butted Jean’s hand with his head. It was the best promise the cat would give him.

By the time he got outside, he found that Javert and Nurse had managed to load the children and settle them into the carriage. Georges dozed in the woman’s arms and, thankfully, Fantine and Émile had been placed as far apart as they could be. Fantine clambered onto his lap. Jean glanced at Javert, who had put himself by the window with Émile at his side. The boy leaned into him to look out of the window as they pulled away, but Javert did not seem to mind it. He put his arm around Émile’s shoulders and slumped in his seat, his hat pulled over his eyes. 

The smile Émile gave Jean said everything that could be said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all folks, until January! This 'little' story is kind of running away from us and whilst we are loving writing it, we're both super busy with work right now. In order to give this story the best treatment we can, we've decided to take a break from posting and try to catch up a bit. We can't say for sure when we will start again in January but rest assured that we will!
> 
> We hope everyone has a lovely Christmas and New Year and we'll be back :D


	16. En Route to Étaples

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _This weighs a ton, travel's a curse..._ except when it's not ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and we're back! Étaples route and geography thanks to esteven  <3
> 
> [CW: for mature activity towards the end of the chapter.]

Four days on the northern road to Étaples. Four days of hills and countryside and small villages, of rattling discomfort and the chatter of small children, and then there would be the interminable summer by the seaside. 

Javert knew he ought to be grateful. These days on the road meant relative anonymity, which could only increase with the distance placed between his family and a Paris that had become suddenly dangerous for them all. The weeks spent lying low in an undistinguished coastal town would hopefully mean a safe place to go to ground, and, God willing, they would only need to return when the remnants of Patron-Minette had been rooted out and recaptured once more.

However, much as Javert told himself he ought to welcome this opportunity to get away, his unruly spirit chafed with each increasing mile that separated the Pontmercy carriage from the 47th quartier. Much as he knew he was too old and well-known to be of use in the investigation, everything within him rebelled at not being at the forefront of the chase.

And, God help him, but the little ones were getting on his last nerve.

Everyone had been well behaved on the first day; the coach had driven along the well-maintained roads from Paris and had made good time to Beauvais. Things were, however, different in as the journey wore on. There were only so many cows and sheep and houses for Georges to count before he burst into crotchety tears; only so many stories Valjean could tell Fantine before she got bored and tried to annoy her brothers instead. Poor Émile was trying hard to ignore his siblings, burying his nose in a book, but he could not help correcting Fantine when she was recounting some fantasy or other, and then Fantine would hit back, and Valjean would have to step in. 

They stopped for lunch along the road to Amiens, with Georges sulking and tired, and then carried on through the rolling plains of Picardy, with Fantine and Émile hotly debating the pros and cons of living in the city, and the best way to get jam out of the bottom of a jar, and Valjean trying to keep the peace. By the time they arrived in the city of Amiens itself, the brother and sister weren’t speaking to each other, or so Fantine would announce, at the top of her lungs, and at five minute intervals.

“I thought part of you not speaking to me would involve you not speaking _at all_ ,” Émile said, finally, as they got out of the carriage, and Fantine burst into tears that were too piercing to be real.

“Grand-père, Émile asked me to shut up!”

“I did no such thing,” Émile protested hotly. “Look, she’s only pretending to cry!”

“Grand-père, Émile says I’m a liar and a crybaby!”

“He did not say that, Fantine,” said Valjean, patiently, for an innumerable time. “Besides, you’re too old to be crying over such trifles. Look, your handkerchief is too pretty to make wet.”

“You think it’s pretty?” Fantine asked, pulling the little scrap of lace from her bodice; both she and Valjean stared seriously at it.

Émile sighed noisily, and Javert roused himself belatedly to be of use. Awkwardly, he told the boy, “You know, your sister only does it to annoy you half the time. It would be much less effective if you didn’t rise to the bait.” 

“Yes, but it’s not fair! Papa always lets her get away with everything!”

Javert rather agreed with this sentiment, though he could not very well tell Émile so out loud. Instead, he said, “I realise it must not be easy for you. But you are the eldest, and it is natural that your parents and grandfather would rely on you to be sensible at all times, even when those times are very trying.”

Émile frowned, then nodded. “Very well, Monsieur, I will do my best,” he said, bravely. 

The coachman went to stable the horse, and the footman started to unload the trunks from the carriage. Javert and Émile hastened to assist. As they approached the inn where they would spend the night, Fantine spotted two little dogs sunning themselves on the stoop of the tavern and burst into a shriek of delight that made Javert’s eardrums ring. Both he and Émile sighed at the same time.

   
  
  
  


Valjean had taken the precaution of renting four rooms at the tavern: one for the coachman and footman, one for himself and Émile, one for Fantine, Georges and Nurse, and the last for Javert himself. Javert knew that this configuration of sleeping arrangements was required for the needful propriety, but he could not say it pleased him at all.

As the hour was already late, they dined cursorily in their respective rooms. Javert was soon done with his meal, and with his ablutions. He wondered if Valjean and Émile needed help saying their prayers, but he knew that he had no good reason to visit their room for that spurious purpose, nor to bid them good night.

Instead, he found himself lying in his narrow single bed and staring at the ceiling, feeling the absence of Valjean’s broad body beside him as an almost physical sensation.

Javert could only recall with some effort the crowded nights of his childhood and the dormitory he had shared in Toulon with his fellow guards, and after that time, the years spent sleeping alone. Since Valjean had welcomed him into his life and his bed, he had only spent the odd night on his own -- before his promotion to Commissary, when he was still scheduled for the occasional night shift, and after his promotion, during the occasional visits to his rooms at the Rue du Bon-Puits in the 47th quartier. The rest of the time, over the last eight years, his nights had been spent in caresses and quiet slumber at Valjean's side.

On those solitary nights away from Valjean, Javert invariably slept badly, occupied as he was with the concerns of the office and not entirely comfortable in such less familiar surroundings. On this night in Amiens, down the hallway from where Valjean and his grandson slumbered, Javert found he could not get to sleep at all. The bed was cold and cramped and too small for his tall frame, and yet it felt too empty. 

He stayed wakeful until dawn, rendered sleepless by the small sounds of the inn, and the ongoing smuggling investigations, and the duties he had left behind in the station-house at Rue du Pontoise. The restful comfort of Valjean's arms was just out of reach.

  
  
  
  


“I think the inn may have mice,” Nurse muttered over breakfast the next day. The woman looked as ragged around the edges as Javert felt. “I could have sworn I heard noises of little feet running around the room. It kept me awake all night.”

“I didn’t hear any mice, Nurse,” Fantine said, too-innocently. She looked as if she had taken especial care with her toilette this morning; Javert wondered what she had been up to.

“Mice!” Georges said, and waved his spoon in the air. Javert leaned over and intercepted it before the lad could put his own eye out, or Nurse’s, and Valjean favoured him with a look of approval.

“I slept very well,” Émile announced. “And so did Grand-père!”

Valjean did look most rested; in the dawn light, he seemed almost youthful enough to be the boy’s father, not his grandfather. He said, favouring the boy with a benevolent smile, “Émile is a very considerate sleeper. I did indeed sleep very well.” 

Javert was glad that someone was getting a good night’s sleep, even if it wasn’t him.

The noise levels in the coach were even more excruciating without having had a night’s rest. Javert could not believe three small children could generate this amount of ruckus. He tried to be of as much assistance to Valjean and Nurse as he could bear, endeavouring to distract Fantine and engage Émile in conversation; during the stop for luncheon he even took a turn with the baby, and allowed Georges to perch stickily in his lap.

In the afternoon he could not help himself. Pleading the onset of a headache, he leaned against the bench and pulled his hat over his eyes and tried to shut out the world.

He thought he might have drifted off for a moment or two. Either that, or the carriage also had a mouse problem -- he could have sworn he heard the pattering and scratch-scritch of little mouse feet above the sound of the coach wheels.

  
  
  
  


When they stopped at Abbeville that evening, Javert steeled himself for yet another night spent apart from Valjean. He was a grown man who had spent years sleeping on his own; besides, he would have many more years to spend sleeping with his companion. One more night apart would surely do no damage to anything or anyone.

To Javert’s surprise, though, the tavern could only assign to them three rooms, and not four. 

“I’m afraid we have had more travellers than expected, Monsieur,” the portly proprietor said, looking at his register with some dismay. “We can let the children have the largest bedroom; it is a family room with three beds and a cot for all the little ones and Mamselle. Which means that the men will have to share two to a room, even M. Fauchelevent.”

“In that case, we will make do,” Valjean remarked gravely. Javert did not dare look at him, for fear that he, Javert, would not be able to keep his composure.

The evening could not pass quickly enough. They dined together early as a family. Fantine made her views known regarding mice and how to encourage their visits, and Émile actually responded in a constructive way. Georges consumed his gruel and fell asleep in Nurse’s arms; he woke when everyone else had finished dinner but miraculously did not burst into tears, and even smiled at his siblings when they tried to comfort him.

Valjean officiated over these activities with a smiling benevolence that made Javert even more impatient. Finally, dinner was over, and he shepherded the children up the stairs and presided over ablutions and prayers. Then he kissed the three small heads, and the children bade him good night.

Valjean was silent as they returned to the room they were to share, but his wry, sidelong glance spoke volumes. As if by accident, his fingers brushed close to Javert’s as they walked. Javert gave thanks to the stars and moon and everything in between that the children were used to turning in early at night.

Somehow, they gained the threshold of their room without incident. Valjean shut the door, and turned to Javert meaningfully, and Javert could not hold back himself back any longer. He caught Valjean in his arms and pushed him against the door of their room and covered his mouth with kisses.

“Such eagerness,” Valjean tried to say, but Javert was past caring. He tore his encircling cravat loose and reached for Valjean’s buttons, desperate to feel the touch of Valjean’s bare skin against his own once more.

“Do not tease me, I beg you, not after the three days and nights that we have had,” he muttered; Valjean laughed and indeed showed mercy, returning Javert’s kiss and helping him draw off his clothes, until they both fell into one of the beds in a hungry embrace. 

From there things proceeded as they had eight years ago, when they were younger men and their new-found love had been feverish and shocking and as irresistible as gravity. They clung to each other with no further thought of propriety or grandchildren or anyone’s advanced age, kissing and pressing against each other more and more urgently, until Valjean finally took hold of both of them in one large hand, and stroked them together, and in no time at all they had both released across the bed and each other in a blaze. 

After they had subsided, panting, against sheets that would need to be discreetly cleaned with handkerchiefs soon enough, Valjean began to laugh again under his breath. 

“I did not realise how much our separation has driven you to distraction! Clearly I must do something about the sleeping arrangements for the remainder of our trip.”

“Promise me,” Javert said. He heard the plaintive note in his own voice, and it did not embarrass him at all.


	17. A Memory of the Sea

The house at Étaples was bigger than Jean had been expecting, although he did not think that a bad thing once they were settled and unpacked, and there was room for the children to play and for Javert to have his own space.

The journey had been arduous, despite the children mostly being on their best behaviour, but Jean chose not to dwell on the moments of sharp words or bitter silences, for they had been relatively few and far between, and he could not blame anyone for them when even his own temper has been tested at times. 

He woke early on the first day to the faintest scent of salt in the air, and the cries of gulls cutting through the still morning. For the briefest of moments, he did not know where he was, and his foot jerked reflexively, testing for the weight of a chain on his ankle. When it did not come, he sighed and turned on his side, held down by nothing but the soft weight of warm blankets. This was not Toulon, despite the smell, despite the noise. And here was Javert, sleeping at his side, if he needed any more proof of that. Jean reached out a hand and traced Javert’s sideburn with his fingertips, just to make sure he was real. 

At the feather touch, Javert wrinkled his nose and shook his head, and Jean pulled away, grinning. It was real. They were in Étaples, a pretty and quiet seaside town, with the grandchildren sleeping just a few doors away and the promise of weeks to do nothing but be together. Javert had breathed a sigh of relief last night when he realised that their rooms had adjoining doors, and he could come and go as he pleased as long as he made sure his bed looked as though it had been slept in. He had been so pleased, in fact, that Jean realised it had probably been high on Javert’s list of things to be apprehensive about, and part of the reason that he had been so changeable in his mood on the journey. 

Careful not to wake him, Jean rose and washed his face in the cold water leftover in the basin. He dressed, more properly than he would in his own home, but he did not want to scandalise the housekeeper who he could hear shuffling around in the kitchen down below. She had been an unexpected luxury and Jean was determined to make her an ally. He needed all the help he could get when it came to his granddaughter, and he hoped that the woman would have a similar influence as Toussaint when it came to tempering Fantine’s flights of fancy. 

The house was relatively newly built, and the stairs did not creak as Jean descended. As it was, he surprised the housekeeper, who was kneading dough at the table.

“Oh monsieur, I didn’t hear you!” she exclaimed, pressing a hand to her breast, “I expected you all to sleep a while longer yet.”

“I’m sure that the others will,” he said, “I apologise for startling you, Madame Thomas. May I sit with you a while?”

“Of course, monsieur. Would you like some coffee?”

“Please.”

Madame Thomas left her dough and began to make the coffee. She was a middle aged woman, younger than Jean, perhaps Javert’s age or a little younger. Her dark hair, coiled neatly onto her head, was only just showing signs of grey and her face, though thin, had a kindly look about it, especially when she smiled. 

“Tell me, madame, do you work only for this house or for several in the town?”

“I am retained as the housekeeper here, for the most part, monsieur,” she said, her hands working quickly, “But I am allowed to take in washing and sewing, to earn a little extra during the time the family is not here. The kitchen is bigger, you see, than my own and I can wash more here and dry it easier too.”

“A good arrangement,” Jean nodded, impressed at the woman’s enterprise. The house belonged to a friend of Marius’, for the use of his family when they wished for a holiday, but the young man had been quick to agree to Marius’ family borrowing it for the summer. Evidently, they did not spend very much time here, which was a shame, for it was a comfortable house. Émile and Fantine had their own rooms, and Nurse had a small chamber of her own adjoining a nursery for Georges. The driver and the footman were installed above the stables in rooms of their own. The stables, for their part, seemed to have been built at great expense for the sole purpose of housing any horses that the house rented for the time that they were in residence, for there were none that lived here permanently. The decadence of such a thing still sat a little strangely with Jean, but he was grateful for the generosity of Marius’ friend in allowing them to borrow the house for an extended time in the height of summer.

Madame Thomas made the coffee and went back to her dough, and they spoke a little more about the town. She asked about the children, their likes and dislikes, what times Jean would like food to be served and how he would like the household to run. She didn’t write down a single thing as he talked, or ask for any clarification, but he got the impression that if he were to quiz her on it afterwards, she could be able to answer every question. Javert would greatly approve of this woman, Jean could already tell.

Eventually, when everyone had woken and eaten an excellent breakfast that Jean watched Madame Thomas prepare from scratch, it was time to go out and take a turn around the town that they were to call home for the time being. 

They were too many to travel in the chaise that the driver had found under cover in the stables and faced the possibility of having to take the carriage into town, when a shout of surprise went up from the stables and Émile rushed in to the kitchen.

“Grand-père, Bernard found a barouche for us!”

Javert, who had appeared at Jean’s side once more after going to fetch his coat, laughed under his breath. 

“Of course they have a barouche as well. Is there anything this house is not equipped with that is used but once a year?”

“Hush.” Jean smiled though, for a barouche was an unnecessary expense for many families back in Paris, even ones that could have afforded such a thing. As Bernard pulled it round to the front of the house, Jean could have laughed at the distaste on Javert’s face, for this one was decorated as ornately as one would expect from such a thing owned by such a family. It did, however, have the unobjectionable feature of being large enough to fit them all in, if Georges’ sat on a lap and Fantine could be persuaded to not wriggle too much. 

“Grand-père, let’s go, let’s go!” Fantine squealed as she was lifted into the barouche, “I’ve never seen the sea before!”

“I know, my dear,” he chuckled, climbing in and closing the half door behind him, “But unless you make room for me, we will be forced to stay here all day!”

Fantine giggled and moved from the seat she had chosen, to squeeze in between Javert and Nurse on the opposite side. She rested a small hand on Javert’s leg, a hand that was accommodated and not gently removed. Barnard pulled away and they began the short journey along the Route d’Hilbert into town, the road that ran alongside the river. The children chattered and Jean watched the scenery pass with tears welling in his eyes, overflowing from the unbearable happiness of the scene. He felt a gentle nudge of a boot against his foot and looked around to see that Javert was watching him. Javert inclined his head a fraction and Jean nodded. All was well.

He wiped at his eyes, pulled himself together, and they arrived in the town to find a very small but perfectly formed place, with an open square and clean, tidy buildings that lined it and the tiny streets. It was a Saturday, and the town was busy enough for its diminutive size, although no one paid them much attention. They were used to visitors here. 

Fantine glanced around and frowned, as the barouche came to a stop in the square.

“Where’s the sea? This looks like Paris.”

“It is a little further to the beach,” Jean said, “But we will go there today. I thought that first we could see the town.”

Fantine did not look convinced, but she climbed down with the rest of them and stood quietly whilst Jean debated with Javert as to which way they should go to begin their exploring. Jean didn’t notice until they started walking that Fantine had slipped her hand into Javert’s, or that Javert had once again allowed it to remain there. 

“It is prudent to keep hold of her in a new place,” Javert said, when he noticed Jean looking, “She is likely to wander and then what would happen, aside from disaster?”

Jean did not answer, only rested a hand on Émile’s shoulder and steered him around a crowd that was gathered outside a café. 

When they did make it to the beach later that morning, Fantine was so delirious with happiness at being able to chase the waves that even Javert had to smile at her antics.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Should have been posted tomorrow but I thought you probably wouldn't mind it being a day early ;) This is where our lovely historical beta esteven's research really starts to come out in full force!


	18. The Fugitive

It was a strange thing to be on holiday. In his previous life, Javert had prided himself over never having to take a day of vacation; he had never once begged off his duties due to illness, soldiering on despite the occasional cough or cold, and he had never had to run any personal errands that could not be pursued off shift. He would accept assignments on Christmas and New Year’s that no other officer would volunteer for, on the grounds that crime itself did not take a holiday. A lengthy vacation, involving travel to another part of the country? It was unheard of.

Of course, many things had changed after he had taken up with Jean Valjean. There had been his long illness in the summer of 1832, after his encounter with the Seine, a sickness from which it had taken him some months to recover. It had been Valjean’s turn to fall ill the following year, and Javert had surprised them both by taking time off work to supervise the man’s convalescence. Then again, before Valjean, there had never been a reason to spend time at home, or to enjoy pursuits other than those imposed by duty.

Certainly before Valjean, there had never been a reason to travel, let alone a reason to travel with small children. Javert would ordinarily have had a horror of such a proposition, regarding it as a hellish endeavour to be endured rather than a pleasurable pastime looked forward to by most other people. Then again, there was nothing he would not endure for Valjean’s sake. Valjean, too, was a stranger to holidays, and to travelling with cherished family members as a pleasant pastime; he had suffered so much deprivation in his life that Javert knew it would be remiss to deny this small pleasure to this good man.

True to expectation, the journey itself had been as hellish as Javert had anticipated. The children had been fractious, unused to cramped quarters for such a long period of time, and Javert himself had enjoyed neither being outside his own area of familiarity nor sleeping alone. 

However, when they arrived in Étaples, it was a surprisingly different story. The house and grounds were large and well-appointed, the children had ample room to themselves for play. The efficient housekeeper proved herself an excellent cook, and Javert found himself developing a taste for Northern country fare in her kitchen. There was little to do by way of upkeep that could not be done by the gardener, though the driver and footman insisted on pitching in around the house as well. The nearby town was near enough for Valjean and him to walk to, although with the children and Nurse it would be easier to ride, either in the carriage or a large ornate barouche maintained by the absent master of the house, and on first impression it seemed relatively orderly, the station house maintained by a small but competent contingent of officers and soldiers.

On holiday, Valjean would rise even earlier than his wont, enjoying the bracing seaside air; he would take his stroll around the estate with the dawn and return to the house with pink in his cheeks and a brightness in his eye that Javert did not recall ever having seen before.

On his part, Javert discovered the desire to turn in early. He had been assigned to a room adjoining the master bedroom, and it was an easy enough task to discreetly join Valjean in the large country-style master bed. And, there being no duties at Rue du Pontoise awaiting his arrival, he found he had a propensity to sleep in late.

“It is a strange thing to see you still abed at this hour,” Valjean remarked, when Javert had failed to rouse himself when the children did for the second day in a row. “Not that it is unpleasant… far from it. It is just proof that we ought to take a holiday more often.”

Javert struggled into a sitting position. The sunlight streamed into the now-familiar room, and lit Valjean’s faint, wry smile. Smells of coffee and toast drifted through the half-open door.

“No more holidays,” he muttered,”if only for the sake of my reputation. Never let it be said that Comissary Javert was still in his bed at nine o’clock.”

“Such a scandal,” Valjean agreed, “and one you will never live down. If you survive it, come downstairs for breakfast; I believe there is still coffee, and the children have not eaten all Madame Thomas’ fresh bread.”

Javert got out of bed and began his ablutions. Soon he would return to his own room discreetly to dress. It had become more familiar to be out of his uniform; he suspected he could become easily accustomed to this less formal method of dressing.

“What does the holiday have in store for us today? Another afternoon at the beach?”

“Emile wished to see the ship-builders’ yards, where I thought we could take luncheon. The sky is clear, and it looks to be another fine day, well-suited for such an outing.” Valjean paused. “It seems Fantine isn’t very interested in boats, though this could just be her way of wishing for time away from her brothers this morning.”

Javert paused, mid-way through the act of shaving. His previous life had been marked by unswerving certitude regarding the proper course of action; he had never experienced the desire to do anything other than what duty dictated. This was something that had also changed after he had taken up with Jean Valjean.

Firmly, he put all selfish desire aside. “Why don’t you take the boys to the docks, then? I will finish my breakfast and then when Fantine is ready to leave the house we will take the chaise and come to town to find you.”

“That would be ideal,” Valjean said, slowly. “In fact, we can take the chaise to town and send it back for you and Fantine.”

“Fine,” Javert said; he did not relish the prospect, but he knew it was the right thing to do.

 

*

 

After Valjean, the boys and Nurse were bundled out of the house, Javert lingered at the breakfast table. The housekeeper, Madame Thomas, seemed more that ready to chat about the town and its inhabitants. As with many small towns, it seemed there were no secrets from each other: Javert learned more than was probably strictly necessary about the idiosyncrasies of the town’s shopkeepers and that of Madame Thomas’ many relatives, who ran diverse small businesses in Etaples and even an inn called The General, and of the various small public festivals taking place around the town in the summer.

Well aware that her guest was a police commissioner, she made her views known about the safety of the small town, as well as the competence of their young Inspector Daubigny. “Although we are getting many visitors for the summer, from Paris as well as from other countries, and I suppose it is more difficult to keep the streets safe from strangers than from the people you know,” she remarked.

Javert drank the last of his coffee, considering this. “Do you feel less safe, then, with all these summer visitors that you do not know?” he enquired. 

Madame Thomas shook her head. “Only that it would take a while to get used to so many new faces. The mayor says it’s because we have become more popular as a destination for tourists from the continent, and our harbour has also become more busy.”

Javert frowned. Perhaps he ought to pay a visit to this Inspector Daubigny; he had hoped to keep a low profile on this trip, but it did sound as if it would be worth while at least making contact with the local law enforcement, if they were going to spend all summer here.

“In any case, now that a police commissioner from Paris is visiting the town, I am sure we will all be even safer,” Madame Thomas commented, and Javert glanced up to see that she had blushed quite becomingly. 

 

*

After all the coffee was drunk and the toast consumed, Javert could not put it off any longer. He left the kitchen in search of Fantine, who had finished breakfasting before he had risen.

Javert did a cursory and fruitless turn of the garden, then the house itself, walking through the corridors and rooms across floors lit with squares of sunlight from the tall windows. Marius’ well-to-do friend had furnished his summer home with paintings and ornate furniture that was undoubtedly to someone’s taste, but not Javert’s. 

Fantine was not to be found in her bedroom, nor in either of her brothers’. The house had wall panels and nooks and large cupboards which could hide little girls not wishing to be found, and Javert, sighing, dutifully looked behind and into every one.

As he paced through the upper floor of the house, Javert became aware of the sound of pattering little feet. It sounded similar to the noises he had heard in the inns en route to Étaples, which was unlikely, as surely no establishment run by Madame Thomas would be home to mice, or other vermin?

Then he heard smothered laughter, and he knew he had his suspect.

The attic was not a place he had ventured during his first pass of the children’s rooms. Javert climbed the small stair, raised the trapdoor, and sure enough, there was Fantine, in her long skirts and ringlets, haloed in light from the slanting windows set into the roof.

And she was not alone. In the middle of the attic, playing with a ball of string, was the small grey kitten whose name Javert had never learned.

Fantine and the kitten looked up at Javert as he climbed into the attic. Both pairs of blue eyes displayed the same amount of apprehension and defiance.

Javert was, surprisingly, not furious. He considered his options as to how to address this situation. “Well, Mademoiselle, it seems I have discovered you red-handed,” he said, at last. “What do you have to say for yourself?” 

Fantine scooped the kitten into her lap. She, too, looked as if she was considering her options. Evidently, she decided that coming clean was the best course to take.

“Monsieur, I know we were not supposed to bring the kittens! And what you said was right: they are still small and would not be used to strange places. Except for this little one, who is so good and who likes new things?”

She gulped, and went on, bravely, “He sneaked into my hat-basket, and I only found out on the first night in the inn. Nurse is so short-sighted she didn’t realise he wasn’t a mouse… Since then, he has slept in my room, curled up beside me, and he hasn’t bothered anyone. After all, you did not discover him until now, no?” 

Javert sighed. It did sound like the little girl was telling the truth. “Do you realise it was wrong not to tell the truth when you discovered it to your grandfather and to me?” he asked, less sternly that he would otherwise have done.

Fantine’s lower lip wobbled, but no tears welled in her eyes, and she said, “I do, and I am very sorry, Monsieur. Please punish me as you think fit. Only, do not make me leave him behind, for he will miss me very much.”

Javert rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I will need to discuss your punishment with your grandfather, Mademoiselle. But for now, suffice that I will brook no more untruths or disobedience from you, on this trip and henceforth. Above all, you must always tell an adult when you have discovered something untoward, even though you wish to keep the secret to yourself. Do you promise?”

“Yes,” the small culprit said, solemnly. The kitten in her arms mewed softly, and Javert sighed again. As if they did not already have too many under this roof this summer, it seemed their household would be harbouring an unexpected additional member.


	19. The Sailor

Jean was grateful that the morning promised good weather, after the threat of rain had kept the children indoors the day before. He was even more grateful – although the fact made him feel somewhat guilty – that Fantine had elected to stay at home for the visit to the shipyard. She was testing Émile’s patience, and it would do no harm for them to have some time apart. She wouldn’t enjoy the boats anyway, but Jean resolved he would take her to do whatever she wished, without her brothers, in the next few days. 

Émile was beside himself with joy at the thought of examining the boats that they had so far only glimpsed from afar, and even the dour nurse had to smile at his enthusiasm. 

“Grand-père, do you think we will see any of them sailing? Or the fishermen coming in?”

“We would need to be awake much earlier than this to see the fishermen,” Jean said. “But it will be a fine day. I am sure some of the pleasure boats will be out.”

“Is there big boats?” Georges piped up. “Big boats, Émile?”

“There are some big ones being built in the yard,” Émile nodded importantly; “But most on the water will be small. Like this.”

From his pocket he took his green notebook, which he had begun to carry all places, as Javert carried his. He took a stub of pencil from his other pocket and began to draw some wobbly shapes. Georges leaned over to look, and Jean smiled. He hoped, as he often did, that Georges would grow to be the faithful comrade that Émile so desperately wanted. Émile had far too few friends for Jean’s liking. He was too quiet for boys his own age, too happy in his own company. Jean saw too much of himself in the boy, and he did not like it. 

The carriage dropped them at the river, and Émile tucked his notebook back into his pocket. Nurse let Georges down and he scampered down the small stretch of riverbank towards the water. Émile followed him dutifully and Jean turned to the nurse. 

“If you wish, mademoiselle, please take the morning for yourself. The boys and I shall be quite alright here.”

“Thank you, monsieur!”

The woman perked up and cracked another smile, her second of the day. Jean chuckled as she disappeared towards the town; she had not been keen on a morning of boats either, that much was obvious.

He walked down to the water’s edge where Émile was gripping the back of Georges’ shirt tight in one hand and showing him a beautiful stone he had picked up with the other. Georges could hardly be expected to understand everything his brother said but, as with the drawings of the boats, he seemed to hang on every word. Jean sat down on the warm sand, far enough away to give them some privacy, and close enough that he could easily grab whichever of them made the first accidental sojourn into the water. 

He was hardly concerned though; the river was so calm that there were barely any ripples across the shimmering surface. Gulls cried overhead and he breathed the salty air deep into his lungs. He had been concerned at the outset of the trip that being so near the water might make him as uncomfortable as it had done on that first morning. It was a relief to find that it only served to make him sad. He could manage sadness well. He always had done. 

Several boats were already out, cruising along on the current, and he watched them a while as Émile talked and helped Georges to throw stones into the water. The boats were too far away to be of interest to the boys and he did not point them out. The boys could stay for as long as they wanted and, indeed, it was almost an hour before they tired of their game.

“Grand-père, can we see the boats now?”

“Yes, my dears.”

They walked the distance to the shipbuilder’s yard, which was tucked into a cove away from the town, on the edge of the sea. The yard was full of small boats being mended and larger ones half-built, and Jean was sure that they would be the thing to capture Émile’s attention. He had not counted, however, on the wooden jetties had been constructed far out into the water, so the fishing boats had a safe place to moor near the men who could help them if they needed it. Several boats had indeed already returned, but many of their crews were still cleaning their equipment and shouting cheerfully to one another. Jean swept Georges onto his shoulders, and followed Émile as he walked along the jetty to the first boat. A young man, no older than Marius, was sat on the deck mending a net.

“Bonjour, monsieur,” Émile said politely. “What are you doing?”

“Tore my net this morning.” The man held it up to show them the hole. “Didn’t catch many fish with it like this!”

“Can I watch you?”

“If you wish,” the man grinned, his teeth bright in his tanned face. “Hop on.”

“Can I, Grand-père?”

“If you want to.”

Émile climbed carefully into the boat and sat down. The man picked up his knife once more and carried on cutting away the loose ends from around the edge of the hole. Émile asked his questions and the man talked gladly, about the fish and the tides and the net. Jean listened awhile, until Georges began to shift on his shoulders.

“Monsieur, I am going to walk a little way,” he addressed the fisherman. “I will not go far.”

The man nodded and went back to his explanation. He had taken out a shuttle – a needle, Jean thought – and was showing Émile how to thread it. Jean walked along to the end of the jetty and back, and when neither of them noticed, ventured a little further to the next jetty along. 

From here he could see the old stone harbour that had been extended over the centuries. It was empty of boats, unfavourable perhaps for mooring, apart from a shabby little boat at the far end. It was rocking as though there was weight shifting from side to side in the hold, and then a man stepped onto the deck. It was no surprise that the boat had rocked so. The man was large and well built, his arms bulging out of shirtsleeves that were too tight for him. 

A prickly heat began to creep up Jean’s neck at the sight of the man’s powerful shoulders, flexing as he lifted crates out of the hold and stacked them on the deck. It was hard to tell, but Jean could almost be sure he had seen those shoulders before. Those arms – had he not fought against them once, been almost choked by their strength? Was it not, God help him, Brujon? But it could not be. Javert had mentioned to him a few years ago that the man had died in the bagne. It could not be him. He was long gone.

“Grand-père, it hurts!” Georges said suddenly, and Jean realised he was holding the boy’s legs too tightly.

“I am sorry, petit,” he said, loosening his grip, keeping half an eye on the back of the stranger. He walked back to the fishing boat, the wooden planks creaking under his heavy, hurrying step.

“Émile, a moment longer and then we must find Javert.”

The young fisherman looked up sharply at the sound of his voice, but Jean had reappeared very suddenly and he could not blame the man for being startled. Émile got to his feet, thankfully disinclined to complain at their time being cut short. Jean’s heart beat fast in his chest and he almost lifted Émile by his collar as he helped him from the boat. 

“Thank you, monsieur!” Émile called to the fisherman, as they swept away.

Jean hurried him out of sight of the man with the crates. He wanted to run, to take the boys and go, but he had to know. It could not, he knew, be Brujon, but his hands shook and he would not rest until he was certain. 

“We have to wait here a moment,” he told Émile, “Entertain your brother for me.”

He leaned around the corner and peered at the man. He still had his back to him, but he had finished with the crates and stood with his hands on his hips. Jean held his breath, willing the man to turn around, even for a moment. When he finally did, Jean felt a blow as though he had been hit. The face was older, the beard was new, and the hair was shorter, but he knew that man. He knew the nose that had been broken and mended crookedly. He knew the high forehead and the twisted lip. 

It was him. 

_Brujon._


	20. A Conversation With the Police

Javert knew he still appeared physically imposing, and indeed as an inspector and a police commissioner he was used to commanding the respect of his peers without a single word. However, he could not help but think this professional bearing was lowered somewhat by the presence of one small girl and her kitten.

Still, there was nothing else for it. He had promised Valjean he would take the child to meet the others at the docks, and it did not make sense to make a detour for the sake of a little dignity.

Fortunately, Inspector Daubigny was still deferential, despite Javert’s unusual choice of companions this morning. He greeted all three of them warmly, even the kitten, and his desk sergeant fetched Fantine a lollipop. Indeed, the policemen did not bat an eye at the sight of the little girl perched upon a chair that was too large for her, swinging her legs, the kitten curled upon her lap. Perhaps in this small town, it was usual for complainants to bring their children and house pets along with them to the police station to make a report of a dishonest greengrocer, or the dangerous state of their neighbour’s fence.

Daubigny leaned back in his chair and said, “The de Marseille home, Monsieur? I believe Madame Thomas does for the family there, doesn’t she?”

“Yes,” Javert said, somewhat surprised. He had forgotten how familiar one could become with the citizenry in small town policing; not that he had himself ever allowed such familiarity in Montreuil. He pressed on, with his real errand in mind. “In fact, she mentioned that the town is seeing an influx of summer tourists, from other countries as well as from France. Does this have an impact on the level of crime in this town, Inspector?” 

Daubigny nodded. “Unfortunately. The visitors are good for business, of course, the shopkeepers and the innkeepers are able to raise their prices, and the mayor himself says we must do what we can to make everyone feel welcome. But with an increased and transient population, there has been a corresponding increase in crime.”

“What sorts of crime?” Javert glanced at Fantine, but the little girl seemed to be paying no attention to the adult conversation, and Daubigny did not feel constrained in his answer.

“Not like the sorts of crime you have in Paris, of course. It is mostly petty crime --- pickpocketing and theft, and overenthusiastic street touting. Also, the younger men seem unused to our northern beer, and unfortunately fall to acts of public drunkenness and vandalism and occasional fistfights with the locals.” 

The usual hazards of small town life, then. Javert ventured: “You seem to have a fairly busy harbour, and are not so far from the major port of Calais. Are there many smuggling concerns?”

“Commissioner, you are a most observant man,” Daubigny said. “Certainly, smuggling is a real concern here. There has been an increase in the number of vessels which call at our harbour, and La Douane’s enforcement contingents have been visiting frequently. One such contingent came through only last week to conduct surprise examinations.”

He shrugged. “There is only so much anyone can do, though. My team here is small, and the permanent garrison not much larger. We patrol the harbour once a night, and that is already a strain on resources. La Douane is concerned about the beach across the bridge, where there is a long coastline as well as a proliferation of caves, and the vast hunting lands and forest close by, but it would be impossible to keep watch across such an expanse.”

“It sounds as if the municipality should assign more officers,” Javert remarked. “Thank you for your time, Inspector. You have quite enough work to do without having to entertain a visitor from Paris.”

“A colleague!” Daubigny said, and stretched out his hand to Javert. “It was a pleasure to meet you, sir, and your little grand-daughter as well.”

“She is in fact the grand-daughter of my friend,” Javert tried to say, as Daubigny showed them the way out, but Fantine was holding the inspector’s hand and telling him about the kitten, and nobody took notice of Javert’s attempt at correction.

 

*

 

It was a fairly long walk from the station to the shipyard, but Javert had sent the coachman on ahead to wait for Valjean and the boys, and so he and Fantine would have to walk. 

The path that ran through the town to the water was not busy at this time of day, and Fantine was old enough not to rush out into oncoming traffic, but Javert nevertheless offered her his hand as they walked. 

They strolled along peaceably, the little girl keeping a steady and determined pace. The kitten had gotten bored of Fantine’s satchel and had climbed its way into Javert’s coat, in much the same way as Orri had when he was the same age. Javert would ordinarily have protested, but the day was fine and the silence was too serene to be disturbed.

As expected, that silence did not last for long. Eventually, Fantine piped up, “Monsieur Javert, may I ask you something?”

“Yes?” Javert said, cautiously.

“What is smuggling? Is it a very serious crime, like stealing?”

Javert sighed inwardly; so much for hoping the child had not been listening. “Smuggling is indeed like stealing,” he said. “It happens when criminals steal expensive things from England, things like jewellery and perfume and gold coins, and then they secretly bring those things into France to sell them without the state knowing.”

Fantine frowned. “Why would they do that? Is English jewellery very different from French jewellery?”

“You would not have thought so,” Javert said. “But it seems criminals do it anyway, an increasing amount of it.”

Fantine nodded sagely. “Aren’t Papa and Mama now in England? Do they know about the English smuggling?”

Javert thought about this. “Your father doesn’t usually practice criminal law,” he said. “And I believe in this case that there are smugglers on the French side as well.” 

They were finally within sight of the shipyards. Brightly-coloured fishing boats were moored side by side with foreign merchant vessels that were small enough to traverse the River Canche, and which had not had need to call on the larger port of Calais. Javert eyed them all with suspicion, wondering how to explain customs duties, and the fencing of stolen property, in the way a child would understand.

Valjean and the boys were not at the square that was their pre-agreed meeting point. Javert frowned: it was not at all like Valjean to be late, even if one of the little ones had wished to stop for an ice, or had been detained watching the fishermen at work.

He looked around the square, and spotted a familiar shape approaching him from an alley nearby. 

Valjean was alone, the boys nowhere in sight. His face, under its tan, was as white as a sheet. He picked up Fantine, took hold of Javert’s arm and hurried them both into the alley, where Émile and Georges were waiting.

Fantine said, in a small voice, “Grand-père, are you all right?” 

“What has happened,” Javert asked more urgently, for he could see something was terribly wrong.

After he had heard about the sighting of Brujon, he felt as unsettled as Valjean looked. That man, not dead after all, and _here_ , of all places!

“Show me,” he said to Valjean, and then amended this to, “No, you’d best stay here with the children. Tell me, and I will go.”

With his usual clarity, Valjean had described an old stone extension to the harbour, and a shabby little boat moored at the far end. But when Javert reached the harbour, the boat had vanished, as if it had been a ghost of Valjean’s past returning to haunt them both.


	21. Émile, Reassured

Javert would not let him accompany him to the harbour, to see if Brujon was still there. Jean argued that Bernard could take the children home in the carriage and then the two of them, he and Javert, could investigate together. Javert shook his head, keeping his voice low to avoid startling the children.

“Please go home with them,” he said. “I can hide myself, make myself disappear. And it hardly matters if Brujon recognises me. But if he recognises you –”

Javert cut himself off, but Jean understood what he was saying. They could not risk Brujon telling the local police who Jean really was. 

“Very well,” Jean conceded. “But do not do anything dangerous. Please.”

Javert nodded and squeezed his hand before he swept out of the alley. Jean took a breath and turned to look at the children. They were quiet, all too aware that something was wrong. Émile had picked up Georges and held him as he slept. Over his brother’s head, Émile watched Jean with narrowed eyes. It was Fantine though, of course, who spoke first. 

“Grand-père, why are we hiding?”

“We’re not hiding,” he said, forcing a smile onto his face. “Shall we find Bernard and go home for lunch?”

“Madame Thomas is making a pie.” Fantine reached for his hand. “I helped her roll the pastry before we left.”

“It sounds delicious.” Jean took Georges into his arms. Émile still hadn’t spoken, but he was obviously deep in thought. He followed behind a step or two as they emerged from the alley into the sunshine. Jean knew he would have to speak to him eventually, but he hoped Émile would hold his questions until they were alone. He didn’t want to discuss the events of the morning in front of Fantine, or Bernard, who sat waiting in the square. 

“Back already, Monsieur Fauchelevent?” 

Yes, we’ve decided to go home for lunch. It’s too hot.”

“And the Commissioner? We waiting for him?”

“He’s staying out,” Jean said, handing Georges to Bernard to hold before he helped Fantine and Émile into the carriage. As a last minute thought, he remembered Nurse was somewhere in the little town. He muttered under his breath and wondered where to start looking for her, when he had the first good bit of luck of the day. 

“Monsieur! Are we returning to the house?”

Nurse appeared at his side and he handed her into the carriage. She asked no questions, thankfully, only settled down and took charge of the sleeping Georges. 

Jean had a final look around him before he climbed up himself. He had collected together all of his charges, but it wasn’t enough. He wished that Javert could have been safe with him too. He knew the man was, of course, capable of looking after himself, but it did not make him feel any better. He could not help thinking that he was abandoning Javert to the danger that Brujon posed. Javert was older now than he had been before, eight years older. Brujon was still a young man and would surely not have lost much of his incredible strength in the years since they had come up against him. He could only hope that Javert would be as careful as he had promised to be. 

“Grand-père,” Fantine spoke again. “Where is Monsieur Javert?”

“He’s gone to see the inspector,” Jean said, “He’ll be along home soon.”

She was happy enough with the answer, but he could still feel Émile’s eyes on him. To his shame, Jean did not meet them. 

It was after lunch, when Nurse had taken the younger children upstairs to rest, that Émile cornered him. The boy pulled himself up to his full height and put his hands on his hips. He looked so much like his mother had done when she was young that Jean almost smiled despite himself.

“Grand-père, what’s happening? Why are you being so strange?”

“Nothing is happening. Do not worry, petit.”

“You’re lying,” Émile said, screwing up his face. “That man on the boat? Who was he? Why did we run away when you saw him?”

Jean did not know what to tell the boy, so he put out a hand. Émile took it hesitantly, and allowed himself to be drawn into the kitchen. Jean gestured to the table and Émile sat down. Jean could still feel the boy’s eyes on him as he made some tea, but he had to stall for time. He needed to tell Émile something, but he did not know what it would be. He had to think, really think about it. He had kept so many secrets from Cosette when she was young, lied so often, that he felt each lie weigh upon him like a link in a chain, and it was still there, around his neck. He did not want to lie now. 

“The man on the boat,” he said slowly, taking the tea to the table. “You saw him?”

“Yes,” Émile nodded. “You were staring at him.”

“He is a dangerous man. I knew him once, a long time ago.”

“Dangerous? Like – a criminal?”

Émile’s eyes were large as he took the piece of cake that Jean offered to him, and Jean could hardly bear it, but he nodded. 

“A criminal. Monsieur Javert knows him too. We thought that the man – well, Monsieur Javert thought that he had died in a prison. So you see, I was surprised when I saw him.”

“Why did we run away?” Émile crammed the cake into his mouth, “Did you think he would see you? Does he know who you are?”

The questions were innocent, but it made Jean shudder. 

“I did,” he said. “I think – he would know my face, if he saw me again. And I did not want him to. And – I did not want him to see you or Georges with me.”

Émile sat quietly for a moment or two, thinking about this, and Jean wondered if he had told him enough. The time was passing and there was no word from Javert, and he was already thinking again on how Brujon’s arms had been bulging as he lifted the crates, and how Javert was not as strong as he used to be. He itched to go, to leave the children in the safety of the remote house, and find Javert. 

“Has Monsieur Javert gone to catch him? The bad man?”

It was as though Émile could read his mind. The cake had done nothing to distract him. 

“He has gone to have a look at the boat.” Jean swallowed around the lump in his throat. “And then I expect he will go to the police to tell them.”

Émile must have caught the note in his voice, the rasp of his fear, for he got to his feet then and came to Jean’s side. He reached out and stroked his shoulder, resting his head against Jean’s. 

“He’ll be home soon, Grand-père. Don’t worry.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” Jean murmured into his hair and then, as though summoned with Émile’s words, the back door opened and Javert stepped, whole and muttering darkly under his breath, into the kitchen.


	22. Certain Undercover Investigations

Daubigny was not at the station house when Javert arrived; instead, he was received by the young sergeant, Marcel.

“The harbour master will only receive the day’s log at the end of the day, Monsieur le Commissaire. And his officer will almost certainly all be out and about conducting inspections at the harbour itself. Perhaps you should come back at six o’clock.” 

Javert frowned. He knew time was of the essence, and yet with these sorts of investigations it would not do to rush things. If Brujon was here, the chances were that he had managed to ingratiate himself into the life of the town in some way, or at the very least had a bolt-hole of a kind. If Brujon were to get wind of the impending action and go to ground, they might lose their one chance at catching him.

The safest course of action would be indeed to wait until the end of the day to pay the harbour master a visit. Perhaps Daubigny would have returned by then and would assist. That would certainly be what Valjean would have preferred. But without any leads at all, and no guarantees as to the competence of the harbour official or Daubigny’s men, the delay might have damned the investigation before it could even get off the ground.

So instead Javert took up another course, one which he used to take all the time as a junior officer in Paris.

He returned to the docks, where a casual stroll down a side street adjacent to the harbour brought him past storehouses to which dock workers were carrying boxes of smaller cargo and dried goods and the fishermen brought in the days’ catch. The street was bustling, and there was a line of oilskin coats and workers’ hats hanging on the fence outside the storehouses. 

Javert took off his own nondescript summer coat and hat, and hung it on the fence. Then he shouldered his way into one of the larger oilskin coats, and jammed a working man’s cap on his head. In that way he bade a temporary farewell to Police Commissioner Javert, and the height and whiskers and Parisian law enforcement deportment vanished under a humble workman’s disguise.

Thus garbed, Javert retook to the docks. At this time of day the small harbour was busy, workmen with the tools of their trade busying themselves at the shipyard, labourers ferrying cargo to and fro, tradesmen milling about and inspecting their wares. Javert fell in with the workers, listening to their chatter as they offloaded boxes and carried them into the storehouses and then went back out for more.  
Eventually he approached a likely pair of older men, who were taking a break from their exertions and sharing a cigarette in the shade. 

“Afternoon, messieurs. Where might an old timer go to look for a day’s work here?”

The men shrugged. One of them said, “We work for old Laurent. Between him and the new man, Daniel, they run things on the docks. But I don’t know if they need any more help.”

His colleague elbowed him. “There’s always a need for more help around here, even from the likes of us older folks. Boats coming in at all times, even after hours. The cargo won’t just move themselves, that’s for sure.”

“And where can I find M. Laurent?”

“It’s lunchtime; the old man will be at his local. You go try The Nag’s Head, on the northern end of the docks. Though you might want to try Monsieur Daniel instead? The newcomer’s from Paris, just like you.”

Javert hid his smile; clearly his years in the capital city had compromised his ability to disguise his accent, and he knew he’d not fully managed to assume the Hyères accent of his youth. “If you’re right, how do I get in touch with him?”

The first man said, “Damned if I know. Bertrand works for him, says he isn’t in town most days, and when he is he doesn’t get in to work until mid-day. You’re better off with old Laurent, if he’ll take you. Just don’t talk to him about Daniel — the two gents don’t get on.”

 

*

 

The Nag’s Head was quite a nice pub at the north end of the harbour, a step up from the more modest establishments frequented by the manual labourers of the town. As befitted the more well-heeled environment, Javert reclaimed his coat and hat, which had surprisingly not been stolen — clearly Daubigny had been rightfully proud of the town’s favourable crime statistics — and so it was the visiting police commissioner who sat down to an impromptu lunch meeting with the main employer of Étaples’ shipyard workers.

“Not sure what you’d like to know about the goings-on at the harbour, Monsieur,” Laurent said. “I told the same to La Douane only last week. Boats come and go, my boys who move the goods say they haven’t noticed anything unusual.”

Javert said, casually, “How about Daniel’s boys, Monsieur? Seems people like working for him.”

Laurent snorted. “Don’t know about that. He might pay more, but he doesn’t always have work for our boys. Me, I like to hire local: my fellows may be a bit longer in the tooth, and talk back to you when they’re not happy, but they’re reliable and know their way around, not like the young grifters from Paris or wherever which that old man likes to hire.” He glared suspiciously at Javert. “Why’re you interested, Monsieur? Like I said, thought this would be La Douane’s concern, or young Daubigny’s.”

“Strictly unofficial,” Javert said. “I’m here on holiday, staying at the de Marseille house. But, you’re right, when my colleagues heard I was coming out here they asked me to keep a look-out, in case La Douane missed something. And so I thought I’d ask someone who would be in the know.” 

Laurent looked gratified. “Well, you’ve come to the right place, at any rate. Out on the docks, us workers don’t miss much. If you’re staying at Vue Mer, then it’s Madame Thomas what looks after you? Lovely woman. Very nice pies.” 

“Madame Thomas’ pies are indeed very good,” Javert said, sparing a single thought for the pie which Valjean and the children were undoubtedly tucking into at this very moment. 

The men both ate another forkful of their comparatively less delicious luncheon, before Laurent said, thoughtfully, “Haven’t seen anyone shifting goods that they oughtn’t, but there have been a few folks from out of town who’ve been coming back this year, even in bad weather, when no reasonable crew should be out and about. A couple of them claim they’re seafaring folk, but I know the ship-going type and this isn’t it. They’ve not made trouble in the town, or else Daubigny’d have hauled them in. But it could be that they’re smarter than that.”

“What do these men look like?”

Laurent shrugged again. “Like ordinary folk? Paris accents. One of them’s a big guy, runs a small boat that takes in water at high tide. Turns away work, even when his boat’s idle, unless it’s for Daniel.”

Javert managed, out of his long years of experience, to school his features to calm. “Thank you for telling me, Monsieur. I know I can count on your discretion. Do you know where I might find Monsieur Daniel?”

“La Douane’s looking for him, too. He hasn’t been around in weeks. Probably gone back up to Paris? But when he’s here, he stays at the General’s Inn at the far end of town, near the beach.”

 

*

 

Javert would have brought back-up to the General, save that he recalled, in the very first discussion of the morning — had it only been this morning? — that Madame Thomas had mentioned that her cousin ran the place.

Monsieur Martin had the same jutting chin and bright blue eyes and garrulous manner as his cousin. “Commissioner! Monique mentioned you. Such a nice family, she said. Such nice older gentlemen, she said.”

“Indeed,” Javert said, somewhat taken aback at the warmth of the man’s handshake from behind the reception table of the inn. “It is good to meet you, as well, Monsieur. I was hoping you could assist with an unofficial query. Monsieur Daniel, he stays here when he is in Étaples, is that right? He has no other home in the town?”

“Not since he arrived in Étaples last spring,” Martin said. “I know some in the town thought it was odd, a young fellow like him to be hiring so many to bring in cargo, but he’s always been well spoken, and he’s kept his accounts here in order. Not that I could say the same for the men he works with, though.”

Javert kept his voice level. “Is that right? They’d stay here, the men who worked for him?”

“Yes. Surprised they could pay, really. This isn’t some low-life establishment!” Martin sniffed. “But the times they left without settling up, M. Daniel stepped in. A right gentleman.” 

“Are they staying here now?”

Martin looked at the well-worn register before him. “I’m not really supposed to say, Monsieur, but since you asked…” He ran a finger down the last page, and named a Monsieur Rennes and a Monsieur Boucher.

It would not be the first time Brujon had passed himself under a false name, if this was indeed he. “Thank you,” Javert said to the affable proprietor. “I may return tonight with the Inspector, when the gentlemen are in residence. It may be nothing, but we would appreciate it you not mentioning this to your guests.”

“I will not,” Martin assured him. “Monique has said how trustworthy you are.” He paused, and then said, diffidently, “Do you know that my cousin has been widowed for two years? And she is still a handsome woman.”

When Javert understood what Martin was trying to convey, he almost wished himself alone and weaponless in the company of the whole of Patron-Minette, rather than here facing this very different sort of interrogation. He found himself saying, “Yes, yes she is,” somewhat helplessly, and leaving the hotel as quickly as he could.

 

*

 

The rest of the afternoon passed very quickly indeed. Javert paid a quick visit to the house at Vue Mer, to keep Valjean apprised of the progress of his investigation, and to assure him that all was well. Not a moment too soon: the man looked agitated enough to tear Patron-Minette apart with his bare hands. When Javert conveyed to him the news that he was going back out into the field without him, Valjean looked positively aggrieved.

“I will be careful,” Javert promised. “And I will have the inspector and his men with me. You need to be here, with the children, keeping them safe.” He did not say, _and keeping yourself safe as well_ , though he knew Valjean understood that, too.

Valjean sighed. “It surely cannot be a coincidence that trouble keeps finding us in this way, can it?”

Even though it was broad daylight, and they were in the hallway through which any member of their household could wander, Javert risked a kiss to Valjean’s mouth. “You invite it, I’m afraid. But it does make life with you an exciting prospect.”

“We could do without this sort of excitement. Come back safely,” Valjean said, and pressed a last kiss to Javert’s hand, and let him go.

 

*

 

Javert spent the rest of the afternoon at the station house, taking his dinner with the men. Daubigny was all agog at the story of the cudgel-wielding giant who had been the muscle of the mighty Patron-Minette gang, and who had now apparently escaped from prison.

“Do you think Brujon is involved in the smuggling?”

Javert frowned. “I am not certain how he is connected to the La Douane concerns. But if it is he, he would certainly be up to no good.”

When it was evening, Daubigny and his sergeant and Javert returned to the General. It was a fine night, and the moon cast enough light by which to see; as they approached the inn, they noticed the torches and lamps that lit up the interiors in brightness and warmth.

It was this combined light that fell across the man standing in the doorway, lighting the broad frame and unmistakable countenance of the man whom Javert had known in the slums of the Salpêtrière, who had then called himself Brujon.


	23. Moonlight

By nightfall, when Javert had not returned and had sent no further news, Jean was ready to go back into town himself, risk be damned. 

After the children had eaten their dinner, he helped Nurse to put them to bed, managing to deflect Émile’s questioning looks by distracting him with a new journal that had been delivered that day. Then he paced awhile in the kitchen, his mind full of visions of Javert doing something foolish, like facing Brujon alone in a dark alley, or tracking him to a tavern and trying to arrest him on the spot. It was not that he didn’t trust Javert’s expertise or his skill, but he did doubt Javert’s ability to be objective these days, now that he had something to lose. Years before he had heard Javert referred to as a dog, even by men who admired him, and Jean was afraid it was true, for what beast had less concern for its own safety than a dog who was protecting someone that he loved? 

As the clock struck nine, Jean couldn’t bring himself to wait any longer, lest he go mad. He collected his boots and his hat, and slipped out of the door. Javert would return along the road, when he came, and Jean would meet him. And if he made it to town before that, so be it. It was dark enough that no one would know him with his hat pulled over his face, and he could wait out of sight near the police station. 

A light burned in the window of the stables as he crept past. He did not want to rouse Bernard or Andre, for they would only ask to accompany him and he could travel better alone. It was not, after all, the first time he had walked alone in the darkness. Besides, they would be better left at the house in case – well, just in case.

At the gate he hesitated and looked about him, but the road was deserted, and he set out under the cover of the trees that lined the road. The moon gave him enough light to go by, and the activity eased his mind a little. He walked faster, pushing himself until he was almost breathless and all he could think about was one foot in front of the other, and images of Javert in danger were forced from his head. If he could get to town, get to Javert, all would be well. 

Then he heard it, the snap of a stick somewhere to his left, on the other side of the road, and he froze.

The first thought that came to his mind was Brujon.

Jean looked about him, but there was no movement save for the sway of the branches in the breeze. Perhaps he had imagined it, the sound, or it could have been an animal. There was nothing to fear from Brujon; the man did not know they were in town, and had no reason to be here, coming to the house. 

Jean held his breath but there was no more sound, and he went to begin his walk once more when an arm caught him about the shoulders. 

He grunted and twisted in the grip, when another hand took hold of him and he was forced to turn. 

“What are you doing out here?” Javert hissed, his face close to Jean’s. “Did I not tell you to stay at the house and protect the children?”

“The children are safe,” Jean said, bringing up his hands to push Javert’s away. “Why did you not speak? I thought you were Brujon.”

“I could have been!” Javert growled, “And then what? I would have come along the road to find you murdered at the side of the road! How could you be so selfish?”

Jean’s blood ran hot beneath his skin and before he could think, he snapped, “Is it selfish to want you safe and unharmed? You are the one who left today and sent no news! You could have been dead by his hand and how would I have known? You didn’t even think, I am sure!”

In the shadow of the moon, Javert’s face was hard to read, but Jean could see the set of his jaw and how he dropped his head to look away. Javert was breathing hard, as though he had been running, and his hair was coming loose from its queue. 

“You are right,” Javert said, after a moment of silence. “I should have sent word.”

He said nothing more, only turned and began to walk in the direction of the house. He was limping, favouring his bad knee. Jean stood rooted to the spot, feeling the anger, unfamiliar after all these years of peace, drain from him. It was the shock of seeing Brujon, the memories he had tried so hard to forget. But that was not Javert’s fault and he knew it. 

“Wait. Javert!”

Javert stopped, although he did not turn his head. He waited obligingly for Jean to catch him, and when Jean looked into his face, he realised how tired the man looked. It had been a long day, after all, and it seemed as though Javert had been running home, all the way from town, if his breathlessness was anything to judge. 

“I’m sorry,” Jean said, and pulled Javert to him. He kissed his mouth, hard. Javert relaxed against him, his head bent at an awkward angle, but he did not pull away. Jean could taste salt on his lips and he reached up to tangle his fingers in Javert’s sweat-soaked sideburns. Javert pressed himself closer and it felt to Jean as if he was the only thing holding Javert upright. 

“We got him,” Javert muttered, when Jean broke away. “He put up a fight, but we got him.”

“Thank God,” Jean said, taking Javert’s hand and pulling him further into the trees, away from the road. “Come and rest for a moment. You’re exhausted.”

Javert followed him willingly, and they sat together behind a tree large enough to hide them from anyone who should be coming past. There Jean kissed him again, on his cheek, his forehead, and slipped his hands inside Javert’s coat to hold him close. Javert allowed him this, tilting his head back and resting it against the tree.

“I’m sorry,” Jean said again. “I just couldn’t be at home, waiting. I should not have left the children, I know.”

“I understand.”

Javert’s jaw was tight and Jean knew that he was hurt. It was an easy thing to hurt Javert, easier than anyone would expect. They sat together in silence for a while, until the lingering warmth of the day began to finally recede and it was too cold to stay there. Then they walked in silence that was almost as cold as the night air.

In the kitchen, he made Javert some tea and put a cold slice of pie in front of him. He sat with him, nursing his own cup of tea, as Javert began to speak. He spoke of finding Brujon and how the man tried to run at the sight of him, all but confirming that he had something to hide. They had pursued him through the streets and down to the water, where Javert had finally tackled him to the ground and pinned him down, fighting the man’s great strength, whilst the others got the cuffs on his wrists. Then it had been a battle to get him to the stationhouse, and then the paperwork, and before Javert had known it, it was gone eight o’clock. He told the story with no embellishment of his own role, and could hardly raise the fork to his mouth to eat. Perhaps he had been injured, and Jean said as much.

“It is nothing,” Javert said. “Only some bruises. And I should not have run. It was a mistake on my part.”

He finished his pie, drank his tea, and Jean took him to bed. 

First, he insisted on bathing Javert’s bruises; angry red welts that spread over his ribs, fingerprints on his wrists where a large hand had gripped him, a boot print on his shin. Javert accepted all of this with his usual reticence, but there was a hint of softness around his eyes as Jean pressed a hot cloth to his ribs, and Jean wondered if his initial anger had been forgiven. 

When Javert was settled in the bed, Jean hesitated.

“I can – if you wish it, I can sleep next door.”

“You are a fool,” Javert growled. “I do not wish it.”

Light with relief, Jean prepared himself for bed, locked the door, and lay down. He reached for Javert again, mindful of his injuries but intent in his purpose. 

He kissed him until they were both breathless, and then pressed his mouth, over Javert’s bruises. For what was each bruise but a token of the danger Javert had put himself in for Jean, and for the children? Javert tolerated it, eyes closed and his skin a mass of gooseflesh under Jean’s lips. When he could bear it no longer, he rolled onto his side.

“No more teasing. Please, Jean,” he gasped.

Jean had not meant to tease, not exactly, but he moved willingly, brought his hand down to Javert’s cock that had been twitching under his ministrations. Javert groaned, deep in his throat, and did not try to move, other than the slightest thrust of his hips. Jean pressed himself close, held them both in his hand and began to rub to stroke both of them together. It was a delicious heat, slow to build and lazy, but as he felt it in his own belly, he opened his eyes and watched Javert’s face. God, he would never tire of it. They could live a thousand years and he would never get over the sight of Javert lost in his pleasure. 

Jean came first, biting down on his lip to stifle the sound of it, and Javert opened his eyes, locked them onto Jean’s as he followed him.

Jean reached for a cloth to wipe them both clean before they succumbed to sleep, and then settled himself behind Javert, his arms around him. 

“Do not apologise,” Javert mumbled, as Jean took a breath to do exactly that, “There is nothing to be sorry for.”


	24. An Interrogation, and its Conclusion

The lock-up in the station-house at Étaples was more commonly inhabited by townsmen who had become the worse for wear from drink, or small-time criminals caught in the act of vandalism or fighting or petty theft. Its ancient iron bars and crumbling brick walls seemed far too prosaic to hold the likes of Brujon.

When Javert arrived at the station house, he found the young officers and soldiers from the garrison milling around in front of the cell, openly gaping at the hulking man who had years before been a fixture of the Parisian underworld. 

Even Daubigny himself seemed rather at a loss. “He’s refused to talk,” he told Javert, by way of greeting. “I’ve put in an urgent request for the paperwork of the prisoner, but it will take days before word gets back to us, especially if the relevant documents are in Toulon rather than Paris.”

Javert said, impatiently, “As I informed you, I recognise the man myself. He is undoubtedly Brujon, and a dangerous fugitive from justice.” Daubigny blanched a little, and Javert belatedly schooled his features to calm. “Although, Inspector, it cannot hurt to have that identification corroborated by the paperwork.” He paused. “Have you sent word to La Douane, also?”

“That I have, and we should hear back from them rather more quickly.” Daubigny smiled a little hesitantly. “I have to say, Commissioner, it is quite a marvel that you managed to uncover this break in the smuggling case so quickly. Why, La Douane discovered nothing when they were here not two weeks before!” 

“That is unlikely to be a coincidence,” Javert said grimly. “There may be a spy in town, or inside La Douane. If the gang were told when La Douane would be in town, they could make themselves scarce until the coast was clear.”

Daubigny deflated a little. “Do you really think we have a spy in our midst, Monsieur?”

Javert shrugged. “Patron Minette were known for their spying prowess. It would be wise to keep an eye out for any suspicious behaviour, Inspector. Now, shall we pay our new guest a visit?”

 

*

 

The blunt, brutal face had acquired new lines and gullies since the last time Javert had set eyes upon it, the long hair now streaked with grey, but the man in the cell was unmistakably Brujon: the criminal who had been part of Jondrette’s gang, feared amongst the denizens of the Salpêtrière, who had held Valjean prisoner in the stinking garret at the Gorbeau House. It had been eight years, and Javert remembered it as if it were yesterday.

Anger and triumph rose in Javert’s throat: the same emotions he had experienced on that night eight years ago, and on the last night as well, when he and Daubigny had managed to arrest the man. With some difficulty, Javert set those feelings aside as he stepped up to the cell bars.

“Good morning, Brujon. Do you know who I am?”

There had been a flicker of recognition last night when Javert had made the arrest. The same recognition was in Brujon’s eyes this morning. Still, he stubbornly muttered, “No. You got the wrong man. My name’s Boucher.”

“You’re out of luck. I’m the one man in Étaples who knows your ugly mug. What are you doing so far from Paris? Bringing in goods from England, giving La Douane the run-around, is that right? ” 

Brujon lowered his gaze. “Don’t know what you mean. My work’s legit.”

“Legit, you say?” At times like this, Javert wished he had his old cudgel. He settled for rapping the head of his cane sharply against the rusting bars. “Where’s your boat, then? Where’s your partner Rennes?”

Brujon muttered, “Not saying anything till I see a lawyer.”

Javert ground his teeth together. The harbourmaster’s officer was patrolling the dockyards, but thus far he had thus far not thrown up any leads, and the vessel registered to Boucher hadn’t been recorded in yesterday’s log. A search of the hotel room had only uncovered papers in Boucher’s name, nothing more incriminating. And worst of all, they hadn’t managed to find Rennes. 

Daubigny had left one of his men at the General to keep a look-out, but it was more likely that Rennes had been tipped off and had fled town in the midst of last night’s fracas.

Javert decided to change tack. “I understand you work for Monsieur Daniel. Who is he? One of the old gang, perhaps?”

Brujon looked up sharply; Javert saw this shot register before the man looked down again. “Not saying anything,” he muttered.

“I think it must be someone from Patron Minette. Thénardier’s dead, so it can’t be him. Montparnasse, perhaps? Or that slippery fellow, Claquesous?”

Brujon didn’t make the mistake of looking up again, but Javert saw a tremor go through the large body. Was that another tell? Javert had no way to be sure.

Again, a wave of strong emotion rose through him: anger, and this time something other than triumph, that was even more savage. 

“You’ll talk eventually. Maybe when your papers come from Toulon, that’ll tell us how you managed to fool everyone into thinking you were dead. And then it’s back to the bagne for you. This time they’ll throw away the key.”

Javert swung away from the bars and stamped out of the lock-up. He took a deep breath, and realised his fingers had clenched so tightly around his cane that the knuckles had gone white.

Daubigny hurried after him. He was on the verge of saying something, but when he saw the look in Javert’s eyes, he shut his mouth with a snap. 

When he could be sure of his voice, Javert said, “Please keep me posted on the news from the patrol,” and took his very abrupt leave of the station.

 

*

 

“It is a good thing that I no longer carry a firearm, or I might have shot him then and there,” Javert said, later, to Valjean, at the conclusion of his account of the morning’s activities. 

The cloud of rage had lifted upon his return to Vue Mer, but the other thing seemed to have remained, and he knew it now for what it was — an unreasoning fear for Valjean, a fear that had seized him earlier that summer when he had chosen to revisit the Gorbeau House in the rain. 

“You would not have shot an unarmed man in custody,” Valjean said. He rubbed Javert’s shoulder in an attempt at comfort. “Much as you might have wanted to.”

Javert sighed and poured himself another glass of wine. The children were abed, and the house was quiet. Madame Thomas had outdone herself at dinner that night; she had also started to gush about how brave Javert had been in capturing the dangerous criminal before Valjean, with an eye to the children, could get her to stop. 

Javert had tried to impress upon the staff of the General how important it was to keep the news of Brujon’s arrest strictly confidential, but he supposed it was too much to expect Monsieur Martin to not share with his cousin this exciting piece of gossip, concerning as it did that cousin’s new visitors from Paris.

Madame Thomas had deferred to Valjean’s request, blushing prettily, but not before getting in one last compliment of, “So brave!”

Javert did not feel in the least brave. Now that the rush of anger was spent, and with it the thrill of the chase, the chilling sensation of his fear lodged in his gut. He knew there were no lengths he would not go to protect Valjean, and the children; his fear was that those lengths might not be sufficient.

Valjean watched him take a deep swallow, then he said, diffidently, “Would it make you feel better to be armed? I am sure the young inspector would be more than happy to lend you a pistol or three.”

Javert frowned, somewhat taken aback by this uncharacteristic suggestion from his most pacifist of companions. “We are safe enough,” he said. “The most dangerous one is behind bars, after all, and Daubigny is having the inn watched for accomplices. Besides, I would not have a weapon in the house with the children about.”

“That seems wise,” Valjean said. He set his own glass aside. “Now, if you are quite finished, let us repair to bed so I can see how well your ribs are healing.”

There was a distinct glint in Valjean’s eye; despite himself, Javert felt his blood begin to heat. He covered the rising flush with a huff. “My ribs and I are quite well. You need no excuse to take me to bed.”

“Indeed,” Valjean said, meaningfully, and helped Javert rise from the table. 

Once abed and apart from the rest of the world, they made use of the salve they had brought from Paris. In their bedroom in Rue Plumet, more often than not, it would be Javert who would be seized with the urge to possess, and Valjean more than happy to indulge him, but on this night, Javert found a tremendous need to be the one enfolded, cherished, and taken slowly apart. 

He pressed the salve into Valjean’s hands. Valjean opened him, unhurriedly and gently, and then overtook him with a fierceness that left both of them gasping. There was no room within Javert for cold or rage or fear as he spent himself in a blaze of white, with Valjean following shortly after.

Afterwards, they lay loose-limbed in each other’s arms, in no haste to complete their ablutions or make themselves respectable for anyone’s eyes. Valjean ran careful fingers over Javert’s bruised ribs, smiling his faint, wry smile as he said, “It seems you were right after all about being quite well.”

“I’m gratified you did not find my abilities hampered by injury,” murmured Javert. In the rush of pleasure and its aftermath, he had quite forgotten he had been hurt at all.

Valjean made a snorting sound in his turn, and then he tightened his still-powerful arms about Javert. “Make no mistake, Javert. I will also do what I must, to protect you and the children.”

Although their thoughts had returned to the smugglers and Patron Minette, Javert discovered he did not mind at all. The cold in his gut had gone, and in its place was an encompassing warmth, as if the steadfast strength of Jean Valjean was itself proof against all and every fear.


	25. A Revelation, and a Problem

Two days passed once more in peaceful near-contentment; whilst he could not entirely relax, Jean tried to convince himself nonetheless that the danger had passed. Brujon was imprisoned, by an inspector that Javert begrudgingly agreed was competent enough. The brute waited only for the transport that would come from Paris to return him to the city, and then he would surely be put back into the prison from which he had escaped. Jean felt a momentary pang of guilt in his chest at the idea he should rejoice any man being forced into the bagne, but it very swiftly passed. Brujon, after all, was no simple bread thief. He was a murderer and a danger to any person who crossed him. 

And so the holiday returned to some of the rhythm that it had before. Javert was a little distracted, but he would continue to be, Jean reasoned, until Brujon was well on his way to Paris. The children were happy, even Émile now that his curiosity had been sated. The revelation of the stowaway kitten was enough to keep Fantine and Georges entertained. Jean didn’t see fit to scold Fantine for disobeying him. It sounded as though Javert had taken well care of that, if the pretty apology that Fantine gave to Jean was any evidence. He was not sure he had ever known another time when his granddaughter sounded as though she was genuinely sorry about something. 

On the third day, Jean woke early for his walk, as was his habit. He had taken to meeting Madam Thomas at the gate just as she was arriving, and walking her to the house. The woman was very affable, more so than Toussaint, who for all she was an excellent woman, had a streak of iron in her. The still hour or two of the morning, when only he and the housekeeper were up, reminded him of when Cosette was at home still, and he had thought himself as happy as he could ever be. 

It was a surprise, therefore, to find Émile awake and waiting at his chamber door. Jean pulled the door closed quickly, to prevent] him from getting a glimpse of Javert still in his bed. To his relief, it did not seem as though Émile had noticed. 

“Grand-père, can Nurse take us to see the boats coming in this morning?”

It was not an unexpected request; Émile had been asking for the past two days. It seemed that his young fisherman friend had put quite the idea into his head of what the boats returning from the fishing looked like, and although Jean did not think Émile would find it as spectacular as he was imagining, he did not tell him so. Nurse had agreed she would take the boys, if Monsieur Fauchelevent wished it. She was often awake with Georges anyway. 

Until now, he had refused the request, Brujon’s shadow at the back of his mind, but he could not say no for much longer. He did not want to deny the boys their dearest wish, and if Nurse would take them as she suggested, he could enjoy some time with Fantine when she woke, and let Javert sleep in for as long as he liked. 

“I will go and see if Nurse is awake,” he said, “But if she isn’t, I will not be disturbing her and you shall wait until tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Grand-père!” Émile beamed, “I will get dressed. Just in case!”

Happily, Nurse and Georges were awake, and the plan was quickly made. Jean went to rouse Bernard, and by half past seven, the barouche was rattling out of the gate on the way to town and the water. They were to return for a late breakfast, when the day could begin. Javert was woken by the unusual early morning noise, and left on foot soon after the barouche to see Daubigny at the station. He promised he would return in time for breakfast, and so Jean was left alone with the sleeping Fantine and a peaceful house.

In the meantime, Madame Thomas had arrived, and made Jean a cup of coffee. He sat at the table with it cradled in his hands. 

“Monsieur Javert had the pleasure of meeting your cousin a day or two ago,” Jean said, watching her kneading dough for bread. To his surprise, she blushed. 

“Yes, I heard,” she said, but nothing else. Jean grinned into his cup. Javert had told him what the cousin had also said, and he could not help but be amused by it. Not that he was laughing at Madame Thomas, of course, but at Javert’s complete disbelief that he should be the focus of such a thing. 

He did not say anything further, not wanting to tease the woman. After a moment or two, Fantine rushed into the kitchen in her nightgown and threw herself into his arms.

“Grand-père, he’s gone!”

“Who’s gone, petite?” Jean let her cling to his neck, patting her back gently as she sobbed into his shoulder. “Tell me.”

“Commissioner Whiskers! He’s gone!”

“Commissioner – Whiskers? Who on earth is that?”

Fantine could not answer him, so overcome with emotion, but Madame Thomas answered him.

“Commissioner Whiskers is the kitten, monsieur,” she said. 

Jean began to laugh, despite Fantine’s tears, and she pulled away to look at him incredulously. 

“It’s not funny!”

“I am not laughing at you, darling,” he said. “Do not worry. Your little friend has gone on a trip with your brothers this morning, that is all. I am sorry, I thought that Émile had asked you.”

“Oh,” Fantine pouted, but her tears stopped immediately. She had never been a child for excessive weeping, even when having a temper tantrum. Jean began to laugh again, and she shook her head. 

“Grand-père, what is funny?”

“Your kitten. Why is he called Commissioner Whiskers?”

“Oh,” Fantine said again, and grinned wickedly, “well, I wanted to call him Javert, because he is grey and so is Monsieur Javert’s hair, but Toussaint said it was a rude thing to do. So I asked Émile and he said we should call him Commissioner Whiskers which is almost the same thing! Do you like it?”

Madame Thomas had begun to laugh too, and soon Fantine joined in. Jean couldn’t stop, once he imagined the look on Javert’s face when he found out about his little namesake. They laughed so loudly that Andre appeared in the kitchen door, summoned by the noise, and in search of his own coffee. Fantine glanced at Jean and, when he nodded, she shared the joke with the young footman, who smirked and winked at her. 

Madame Thomas turned back to her bread, shoulders shaking with silent laughter, as Andre wandered back outside and Jean got to his feet. Fantine continued to hang about his neck, and he put an arm around her to keep her in place. 

“I am going to help Fantine dress,” he told Madame Thomas, just as the kitchen door burst open once more and Javert hurtled into the room. 

“Where are the boys?” he asked. “Have they returned?”

“No, Javert, they haven’t.” Fantine clung to him, staring at Javert with wide eyes. Jean could hardly blame her. Javert was shaking and breathless with the effort of having run some distance, his face pale and his own eyes wild. 

“What – Javert!” 

Javert turned and ran back out into the yard, and Jean’s heart began to race. Something was wrong. 

Very wrong.

He put Fantine down and followed in Javert’s wake. As he rounded the house, he could see Javert in the distance, already back out of the front gate and sprinting along the road. By the time he had caught up, Jean heard the barouche rattling along the road and saw Javert stopped dead, bent at the waist and panting hard, watching the barouche’s approach.

As it rounded the corner, Jean saw only Bernard driving, and he had Georges seated on his lap.

“Oh God,” Jean mumbled, running to meet them. Javert had pulled up alongside the barouche, which had ground to a halt, and he did not even seem to think as he reached up and took Georges into his arms. His face was grim as he held the boy close and turned to look at Jean, the panic on his face all the more terrifying for being so rare a sight.

“Monsieur! Commissioner!” Bernard’s voice was shaking. “It’s the young master.”

“Émile?” Jean felt as though his legs were about to collapse beneath him. “What? What’s happened?”

“Don’t know for sure,” Bernard said, barely able to speak the words. “But he gave us the slip and we couldn’t find him. He’s gone, monsieurs!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And on that bombshell, if you can possibly forgive us, we are going to be taking our second short posting break. Hopefully it won't be for too long - a month max! We just need some time to catch up with ourselves and not try to crack under the pressure of getting this thing done - it has grown to be way longer than we ever imagined it would be! 
> 
> Thanks, as always, for reading and kudosing and commenting, and we'll be back asap :D


	26. The Disappearance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...And we’re back! Thanks, as always, to Esteven for the beta!

There was nothing else for it. Daubigny and his men had scoured the city, but Rennes could not be found, and Brujon refused to say anything incriminating or even to positively identify himself. No one seemed to have seen hide or hair of the mysterious M. Daniel, not even his business associates, or anyone at the General’s Inn. 

Javert disliked admitting it, but there was very little more the authorities could do. The guarded transport from Paris had been despatched to collect Brujon and return him to custody in Toulon; it was scheduled to arrive in short order. That would resolve the issue of the man’s escape from the bagne, but it brought them no closer to capturing Brujon’s associates, or the rest of Patron-Minette, or solving the smuggling case that had so vexed La Douane and the people of Étaples.

Valjean had been very patient. He had not commented on Javert’s restlessness and distraction, rousing before Javert and keeping himself busy with the children and the domestic matters of their holiday home. Fortunately, the children had caused no trouble, even Fantine, who had been on her best behaviour after the discovery of the kitten, and after a day or so Javert allowed himself, hesitantly, to relax. After decades in law enforcement, he knew all too well that sometimes not all crimes were meant to be solved, and that not all criminals could be brought to justice. Perhaps this was so for Patron-Minette as well.

On the third morning after Brujon’s capture, Javert was wakened, earlier than his wont, by carriage noises in the yard. Valjean came into their room, fully dressed, to tell him the news: it seemed an expedition to the dockside to watch the fishing boats come in had just gotten underway.

“In that case, I will just stop by the station house,” Javert said, getting out of bed and starting to pull on his clothes. Noticing Valjean’s somewhat reproachful look, he added, “I will return shortly. The boys will be back for a late breakfast, will they not?”

“Indeed. Madame Thomas was making sweet pastries this morning; she will be very disappointed if you do not return to partake of them.”

“You torment me,” Javert groaned, and Valjean leaned in to give him an amused kiss. 

This sign of Valjean’s affection did not prevent Javert from trying to leave the house as silently as possible. He did not wish to give Madame Thomas any opportunity to detain him. Javert had very little prior experience with the admiration of others; he supposed it was ironic that, so late in life, he was now being taxed with a surfeit of attention, and from a handsome and accomplished widow, no less. 

It _was_ ironic. Small wonder that Valjean was amused, but then Valjean was well aware that Javert had no desire for attentions other than that of Valjean himself.

Musing on these prosaic matters, Javert strolled slowly through the quiet streets of the town. The morning was bright, and the sky an unruffled blue. All was peaceful — and thus was Javert totally caught off guard by the scene that greeted him when he rounded the corner of the town square.

Despite the early hour, a crowd of townsfolk had gathered outside the station house. There was the sound of a woman crying, and a terse voice was giving orders.

“Stand aside, for the love of God! The man needs air!” It was the old village doctor, who had seen to the injuries sustained by Javert and other officers in the course of Brujon’s arrest. Following him were two men carrying a makeshift stretcher, and laid out on the stretcher was Marcel, the young sergeant. 

The woman’s sobs intensified, and another shrill voice demanded, “Is he dead?”

“He will be if you don’t stand aside! I need to get him to the infirmary! Boys, if you please —” The doctor gestured urgently, and the attendants redoubled their efforts to convey the patient through the throng.

All the hairs on the back of Javert’s neck rose to attention. He shoved his own way through the crowd and caught sight of Daubigny on the front steps of the station house.

“What’s happened?”

“Brujon has escaped,” the young inspector said. He looked distraught. “When I got in to the station, not thirty minutes ago, Marcel was lying on the floor, and the door of the cell was wide open.”

Javert had to see it for himself, of course. The scene was as Daubigny had described; the overturned desk, the sign of struggle, and the empty cell.

“Don’t the soldiers patrol the square at night?”

“Yes, and whoever did this must have given the patrol the slip.” Daubigny rubbed his forehead miserably. “We have been two to a man here for the last two nights, but last night Marcel gave the guard the night off — his mother has not been well for some days. And we thought, the additional guard has not been necessary after all; the prisoner has been meek as a lamb…”

“They must have been watching the station house,” Javert said, tersely. “We were keeping a look-out for Rennes and Daniel, so there must be more of the gang about.”

“Marcel would not have known what hit him, the poor boy,” Daubigny said. “I alerted the patrol, the soldiers are combing the town as we speak. But the gang could be long gone by now.”

“Have you sent word to the garrison for the soldiers to search the roads?” Javert demanded. “They will doubtless be trying to flee the town; Étaples is too small to hide in for long.”

“Yes? Though I don't doubt they'd be hard to catch, even on the main road to Paris. And if they fled by boat…” Daubigny gave a small, helpless shrug. 

_If they fled by boat._ For a moment, Javert could not breathe. 

Surely there was nothing to fear. Even if the gang had used one of the vessels at the shipyard, they would have been long gone by the time the boys and Nurse had arrived. 

Even so, Javert took off running.

When he arrived, the docks were bustling. The fishing boats were beginning to come in, and fishermen and crew and dockhands were milling about, offloading their tackle and hauling in their morning’s catch. They moved aside too slowly for one irate police commissioner. Javert pushed impatiently past nets and cargo; elbowing men in oilskins who carried baskets bulging with fish; trying to hear himself think above the shouts and hubbub of the crowd. There was nothing out of the ordinary; certainly no small spectators from Paris taking in the scene.

The harbourmaster and his mate were standing at the far end of the docks. Javert approached them urgently.

“We’ve just heard about the escape. So far, no one’s here that shouldn’t be, though with the boats still coming in, it’s hard to tell.”

Javert tried not to raise his voice. “Have you seen two boys? One eight years old, dark haired, wears a blue coat and writes in a notebook; the other still small, and his coat is green? They would have been with their nurse.”

The harbourmaster shook his head. “Sorry, we’ve just got here ourselves. We’ll keep a look-out, but so far it doesn’t look like there are any little boys out here.”

Perhaps all was well. Perhaps they had just watched the boats return and then left safely, and were even now on the way back to Vue Mer.

Javert took to his heels once more. The frantic sound of his heart seemed to mock him as he retraced his morning route from the village to the de Marseille house.

No barouche in the yard. That meant nothing — Bernard could have returned it to the covered shed, or gone back into town. Javert banged through the front door and headed into the kitchen.

“Where are the boys?” he asked Valjean. “Have they returned?”

“No, they haven’t,” Valjean said. He looked up uncertainly at Javert, and a spike of fear drove through Javert’s heart. 

Javert turned and ran back outside. In the road, he had to stop. His legs could barely hold him, his lungs burned, and still it was nothing compared to the fear that had gripped him.

And then his worst fear came to life at the sight of the barouche approaching — with only Bernard driving, Georges crying on his lap.

 

*

 

They returned to the docks with Bernard post-haste, where they discovered Nurse telling her tale to the harbourmaster. When she set eyes on Valjean, the poor woman burst into tears.

“Oh, Monsieur!” she wept. “This is my fault. I took my eye off them for one moment and they were gone! Then Émile rushed back and said he had seen the prisoner! And he asked me to fetch Bernard and return home to bring you and the Commissioner to the docks. And then he rushed off, and I tried to follow him but I could not stop him, and then at first I could not find Bernard, either!”

Javert tried not to shout at the hapless woman. “Did he say where Émile had been? Or where he was keeping watch?”

“He said something about the young fisherman? You know, his young friend with the broken net. He said something else, but I cannot remember.”

Valjean said, much more calmly than Javert could have believed, “The fisherman’s boat must still be here. Let us search.”

However, the boat seemed to have vanished, and the harbourmaster had no record of it having come in that morning. And there was no trace of Émile anywhere on the docks, even with Valjean and Javert and Daubigny’s men searching and searching again until the sun went down on that terrible day.


	27. A Difficult Day

By mid-afternoon, it became clear that Émile was not to be found at the docks, and the police began to search along the river and down towards the sea. The men were few and the resources spread far and wide, and with every minute that they did not find Émile, Jean felt the weight of dread settle more heavily on his shoulders. 

He had hardly seen Javert since they had arrived at the docks to find the weeping Nurse. Jean had stayed to comfort her, to speak to her about what had happened and see if there was something she had forgotten to tell the police, anything that might be of use. Daubigny, pale and sweating through his shirt, had stayed with Jean and to co-ordinate the men at the docks. Javert had gone off with the other men to begin looking around the town. Jean saw glimpses of him from time to time, running himself ragged in organising men who had never had to perform such a search before. 

Nurse insisted on staying with Jean and helping to search the docks, and he did not send her home. It was not her fault that Émile had slipped away, and she was so determined to be of use that he would not have been surprised if she was the one that found Émile by sheer force of will. But the hours ticked by, and by two o’clock, she was in a state of some distress.

“You have not eaten today,” Jean said, taking her elbow. “I must insist that you return home.”

“But, monsieur —”

“No,” he said firmly, guiding her to where Bernard had left the barouche. “I will accompany you, for a time. I must see how Georges is.”

She did not protest after that, only sat hunched in the corner of the barouche as Bernard drove them towards the house. Jean did not stop to tell Javert what he was doing; he was so busy, he would not notice his absence for an hour, and if he did then Daubigny would know where Jean had gone. He did not want to stop his part in the search, but he had other charges to concern himself with. Georges had been distraught when he had been deposited into the arms of Madame Thomas, and Jean needed to see him. Just for a moment, and then he could return to help anew. 

Madame Thomas had done a good job, it turned out. When they got back to the house, Georges was asleep, curled up on the couch in the parlour. 

“Very upset, monsieur,” she said, “Crying for his brother, all morning. He understands enough to know that something is wrong.”

Jean swallowed against the lump in his throat as he lifted the boy into his arms, and pressed his lips to the golden hair. A wave of fear crashed over him and he screwed his eyes shut against it. He did not have time to weep. He needed to be strong, stronger than he had ever been, if he was to be of any use to Émile. Quickly, before he could become overwhelmed, he gave Georges to Nurse.

“Go and rest, the both of you. Madame Thomas shall bring you some lunch.”

“Yes, monsieur.”

Nurse and her charge left the room, and Jean sank into a chair. He would just rest a moment before he went back to town. 

“Fantine is in her room,” Madame Thomas said, putting a cup of tea before him, “She is very upset. About Émile, and the kitten.”

He opened his mouth to reply, when there came a shout from outside in the yard.

“Monsieur Fauchelevent!”

It was Bernard’s voice, filled with a rising note of panic that was very unlike him. Jean rushed outside to find Bernard half buckled under the weight of Javert, whom he was holding up. Javert’s face was grey, his body drenched in sweat, and his bad leg was giving way beneath him. 

“What happened?”

“He came into the yard like this, monsieur,” Bernard said, as Jean helped him support Javert’s weight by taking Javert’s other side. “Well, he ran in. Saw me and then this.”

“My God.” Jean tried unsuccessfully to reach for Javert’s pulse with his free hand. Madame Thomas hurried over and placed her fingers over the right spot.

“Strong, monsieur. Just too much heat, do you think?”

“Most likely. Bernard, help me get him upstairs.”

Javert was not so unable to help himself that he couldn’t move his feet, and they did not have too much trouble getting him up the stairs. They laid him on his bed, and Bernard escaped downstairs. Jean set about loosening Javert’s clothing and removing his boots. Javert, fully conscious now, watched him.

“I am sorry.”

“No apologies,” Jean said, tossing the boots into the corner and taking up the cloth in the abandoned wash basin. “Did you run here? From town? It is too hot a day and you haven’t eaten, or drunk anything.”

“It’s my damn leg.” Javert grimaced as the cool, damp cloth passed across his forehead. “And chest — couldn’t breathe.”

“You need to rest,” Jean said, “For an hour or two at least. They can look without us.”

“But Émile —”

“You are not helping him by making yourself ill.” Jean heard the words in his voice, and marvelled at how calm he sounded. “Please rest. I cannot have you — just rest.”

Javert nodded, his eyes damp, and Jean had to turn away. He could not look at him when he was like this. It was too real. 

He sent word back to the town with Bernard that he and Javert would be resting awhile at home. Daubigny was capable enough, and his men knew the town better than they did anyway. 

He did not see Nurse or Georges for the rest of the day, and Fantine came to eat, then went back to her room in near silence. She could not have failed to pick up on what was happening, but he did not know what to say to her. Later, perhaps, he might have something to tell her. Instead he sat quietly, turning over everything in his head and refusing, resolutely, to think about Brujon and his friends. If they had any brains, they would be far away by now, and Émile’s disappearance had nothing to do with them. 

Once Javert had fallen soundly asleep, Jean went to the kitchen, where Madame Thomas kept him company. They didn’t speak for hours, until the sun was setting and there was a gentle knocking at the kitchen door. 

He leapt to his feet – could it be Émile? He wrenched the door open, only to find Andre on the other side, accompanied by one of Daubigny’s young men. Jean’s heart dropped and his fist tightened around the door handle until his knuckles felt as though they would burst from his skin. 

_Émile._

“Monsieur!” The policeman had a small, crumpled sheet of paper in his hand. “Does this belong to your grandson?”

He handed over the paper, and Jean looked at it. It did look like a leaf from Émile’s notebook, and, yes, there was a scrawl on the other side that could be in his hand, although it did not have his usual careful neatness. Jean read the words, guessing where a scribble had taken the place of a letter.

_Blue boat. Red carriage. Four men. Treasure._

“Where did you find this?” he asked, retreating back to his chair and beckoning the men into the room. “This is his. I’m sure of it.”

“I found it, monsieur,” the policeman said. “I was on my way here, this evening, to have a look about the grounds. Inspector Daubigny wanted me to look. But I found this on the road and I knew – you said the boy always carried a notebook.”

“He does.”

Andre, who had been hovering at the door, stepped forward. 

“Monsieur, if they are to begin to search along the road – perhaps the young master will be there, abandoned somewhere on the way to Paris. May I help them search? Bernard too? I’m sure he would want to.”

“Yes, of course.” Jean held the paper a moment longer, then gave it back to the policeman. “Will you go back to the inspector now?”

The man nodded. “To tell him, and to suggest we start to search the road. There is an inn, a few miles beyond this house, and that would be as good a place as any to look. They must have to stop somewhere.”

The policeman left to see to the arrangements, and Madame Thomas fed Andre and Bernard a hasty dinner. At the sound of several fiacres rattling past the gates an hour later, Andre leapt up and raced out to flag them down. Bernard was slower, and Jean put a hand on his shoulder. Bernard had been quiet, clearly feeling guilty too about Émile’s escape. 

“Thank you for helping,” Jean said. “And tell the inspector that as soon as Commissioner Javert is recovered, we will come to join you.”

“Yes, monsieur.”

After the frenzy of activity, the house fell silent once more, and that was when Jean heard the creak of floorboards above the kitchen. That was the children’s room. 

He hurried up the stairs just in time to see Javert’s bedroom door close back on itself. 

Fantine was standing at the foot of the bed, staring at the sleeping form of Javert, when Jean joined her in the room. She was pale, her little blanket wrapped around her shoulders, and she turned to look at him in confusion. 

“Grand-père, why is Monsieur Javert asleep? It isn’t night time.”

“Ah, ma petite.” Jean swept her into his arms. “He was very tired, after we were out looking for your brother, and he hurt his bad leg. He needs to rest.”

“I am very tired too. I’ve been thinking all day. Where is Émile? And Commissioner Whiskers?”

“I don’t know,” Jean said, his heart aching in his chest. “Shall we go downstairs? Would you like some dinner and some hot milk?”

Back in the safety of the kitchen, Jean sat with Fantine on his lap, thinking about the revelation that Émile could be at any one of the inns along the main road, and that his grandson was so very bright and would be trying to help himself. He itched to be out, helping, but he would not leave Javert behind, and Fantine needed him too. It was not fair to neglect her. 

“Grand-père? Where is Émile?” she asked again.

“I don’t know, petite,” he said, taking her small hand in his own. “But Inspector Daubigny is still looking, and soon I will go and help him.”

They sat in silence a while and she ran her fingers over his thumb, as though she was thinking hard.

“Did you look in the caves?”

Jean was not listening when she spoke, and had to get her to say it again.

“The caves,” she said patiently. “Did you look there?”

“What caves?”

“The caves that the inspector told Monsieur Javert about,” she said, rolling her eyes, speaking slowly as though he was hard of hearing. “Émile likes stories about pirates, and pirates live in caves. I would look there. If I was a grown-up.”


	28. To The Sea

It was fortuitous that there was a full moon. This meant they did not need men with torches to light their path. Instead, the large grey mare was able to keep to a good enough pace on the makeshift road to the coast, despite her doubled burden.

Valjean sat behind Javert, behind the old saddle, clasped against his broad back. He was a much less experienced rider than Javert was, having only taken it up after Cosette’s marriage, but he was as much a natural in this as he was with all physical activities, and the mare, who had made the journey with them from Paris, was fortunately accustomed enough to them that she did not seem to mind the doubled weight. 

Javert had brought a covered lantern, which hung from the saddle, to light their way should the clouds obscure the moon, and their night-time journey through the forests to the coast become more dangerous. 

Under his breast was terrible fear, and an even more terrible rage.

True, he might have suffered a single bout of weakness, which had delayed Valjean in riding out with Daubigny’s men and the rest of the rescue party. But there was no time to waste in self-recrimination. He was going to bring down the gang of smugglers around Patron-Minette’s ears, if it was the last thing he would do.

Daubigny’s men might well be on the right trail. Émile’s note had cleverly given the police details of the cart in which he had likely stowed away, and if the smugglers were still unaware of his presence, they might have stopped to spend the night at a safe-house, or, if they were recklessly confident, an inn. This would provide ample opportunity for escape, and all Émile needed to do would be to follow the road back to Étaples, along which Daubigny and the others would easily intercept him.

And if the gang had indeed diverted to the caves along the coast that Daubigny had mentioned and Fantine had recalled, then Javert and Valjean were heading out to stop them.

The road was little more than a dirt path, taken very infrequently. Tradesmen undoubtedly eschewed this part of the coast for the commercial ports at Calais and Boulogne-sur-Mer, and cargo transported to and from Étaples would almost invariably travel along the main roads or via the Canche River. There would be few reasons for any person — perhaps hunters and poachers, indigenous to the region, if anyone — to traverse this route to the coast.

The woods through which they rode became denser, and the mare slowed in her steps. Javert looked keenly about them. Daubigny had mentioned that the forest had been designated as hunting grounds; if the vast area had gamekeepers, then these men might have been witness to suspicious night-time activity, if they were not themselves in league with the smugglers.

“Look,” Valjean said, gesturing toward the ground. 

Javert drew the mare to a halt, and they both dismounted. Valjean held the reins as Javert crouched over the ground with the lantern held high. The leaf-strewn, sandy ground did not hold many recognisable tracks — but there was no mistaking the unnatural groove, in the place where the ground was softest, that could only have made by heavy wheels. 

“That is a sign, that we may be going the right way after all.”

“Indeed,” Javert said. “Let us continue.”

They could not risk losing the track again. Javert remained on foot, scrutinising the ground with the lantern held above his head, and with Valjean riding slowly behind. There was a short disagreement as to who would walk — Valjean had wanted Javert to ride, for he was afraid Javert had not fully recovered from his earlier uncharacteristic collapse, but of course Javert himself did not stint to spare Valjean, who had clearly not slept during this most upsetting of days and was surely even more exhausted than Javert himself.

In the end, they compromised. “We shall take turns,” Javert said, and despite the urgent circumstances, Valjean paused to press a kiss to Javert’s hands.

“We will find him, Javert,” he whispered. Javert shook his head — he ought not be surprised by the strength of Jean Valjean, or by the fact that his companion had enough consideration to try to comfort him, whilst amid the throes of his own fear and distress.

They travelled in silence for a while, moving agonisingly slowly. The moon was bright overhead, but even so, there were times when Javert could not discern the wheel tracks and thought he had lost the trail. Fortunately, by the grace of God, he managed to find it again — clearly the smugglers were not expecting anyone to suspect that they had fled this way. When his feet began to drag, Valjean took his place, and Javert allowed himself to rest gratefully on the mare’s back.

Perhaps he closed his eyes for a moment, for the mare’s abrupt halt came as a surprise. Javert jerked himself to full consciousness to find that he could now hear the roar of the sea. Up ahead, through the trees, he saw the expanse of coastline, and beyond it, the darkness of the North Sea.

“Quietly now,” Valjean murmured. He had covered the lantern so its glow could not give them away.

Javert trussed the mare’s reins to the nearest tree, and they proceeded from there on foot, and in silence.

It took no time at all to reach the coast. The moon illuminated the beach, a wide swathe of sand and rock that stretched in either direction as far as the eye could see. The water was black and wild. The coastline was punctuated by several lines of rocky extrusion: too intermittent to be cliffs, too large to be mere outcrops. 

“Which way?” Javert mouthed.

Valjean gave him a one-shouldered shrug, and started toward the largest rock projections.

They picked their way over the rocks very carefully. The grey shingle was steady under their boots; Javert fancied that the smooth stones had seen unexpected use, the rough edges worn away by the drag of illicit bounty and the footfall of criminals who had sought to conceal both themselves and their ill-gotten treasure in caves hidden beyond.

They were both concentrating so hard on staying quiet that they did not at first recognise the small sound. It sounded like a small sea bird, or a rusty hinge opening and shutting repeatedly.

Then abruptly, from one of the rocky crevices, emerged something tiny and grey. 

It approached on four nimble, fluffy legs at some speed. It curled against Javert’s ankles, and meowed urgently.

Javert scooped up the kitten. His heart had started to beat very rapidly. 

Valjean came up beside him. His big hand stroked absently against the kitten’s soft fur. There was a bright gleam in his eyes; Javert did not need words to know how excited and hopeful his companion had become at this unexpected, welcome apparition.

Valjean mouthed something in turn. Javert must have misread him, because he thought Valjean was saying something that looked like _Commissioner — Whiskers?_ That made no sense whatsoever.

Valjean next mouthed something else that Javert had no trouble identifying.

“Let’s go.”

Javert grinned. He thrust the kitten into his coat pocket, and from the other, he withdrew one of Daubigny’s pistols.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The caves along this stretch of coast are an invention; IRL the coastline in this then-unpopulated forested hunting area (now known as Le Touquet) is too shallow for the intricate cave system that will soon become integral to the plot! Map here: http://arras-france.com/le-touquet-paris-plage-northern-france/
> 
> We knew it would be useful to tag for the 2012 movie — this is a universe in which Javert is an expert horseman ;)


	29. The Confrontation

The water went deep into the cave and there was no obvious way around it, so Javert simply began to wade through it, and Jean followed him. With Javert’s torch held up as high as he could reach, there was just enough light to see by. Javert did not like water very much, Jean knew, and he was happy to let him set the pace. It gave him time to think about what they could be walking into. 

It seemed clear now that they were to come face to face once more with enemies from the past, men who had all run with Thénardier before the vile man’s death. Brujon would be there, for sure, and Javert had named Montparnasse and Claquesous, and perhaps there would be others too. The water was cold and it did not help alleviate Jean’s thoughts of the gang, and of whether they had already discovered Émile. 

But he would not think that way. He and Javert had bested these men before, and they would best them again. It was true, Javert was slower now than in his younger days, though no less sharp, and Jean had no doubt that he himself was not as strong as he had once been. But it did not matter. The gang may not even be here and if they were – well, they would have to find a way. 

He was so deep in his thought that almost knocked Javert over as he bumped into him. 

“Sorry,” he murmured. “Why did you stop?”

He circled round to peer at Javert’s face. He was still pale, as he had been earlier, and he gritted his teeth. 

“To rest a moment,” Javert conceded, “And we must be prepared.”

“We are,” Jean said. “You have your pistol, and I have my hands. I have never needed any weapon.”

Javert licked his lips and said, “I think we must go quietly now. If they are here, there is no telling how far sound will travel in these caves.”

Jean nodded, and reached for Javert’s torch. He took it, then grasped Javert’s shirt and pulled him down for a kiss. The tension did not leave Javert, but Jean could hardly blame him for that. Instead, Jean squeezed his hand and turned away. 

“I’ll lead for a while.”

Javert didn’t argue, and after only a moment longer, they were leaving the water at the back of the first cave. Two passages led away from the pool and they stopped to contemplate them for a minute. 

“I think we should go this way,” Jean said, gesturing to the wider of the passages, where the dirt on the floor was scuffed, as though by someone walking there. 

“They’re here,” Javert said, gazing at the earthen floor. “I am more sure of it by the second.”

As if to illustrate his point, he cocked his pistol and touched his other hand to Jean’s cheek. 

“Let us go and find our boy, Jean.”

In the dark of the cave, it was difficult to tell how much time was passing as they walked, but Jean supposed they had been in there for at least a half hour when his sharp ears caught the first sound that did not come from either of them. He stopped, as suddenly as Javert had done earlier, and held up a hand. Javert immediately came to a halt, and Jean heard it properly. A rumble, so low that it could have been the pounding of his own blood in his ears, and he turned to see if Javert heard it too. 

Javert appeared to be holding his breath, eyes closed, but then he nodded and let out his breath. It was not in Jean’s head. 

“A voice,” he whispered, bringing his lips to almost touch Javert’s ear. “Brujon’s, perhaps?”

“Indeed,” Javert replied. “If not him, then there is certainly someone there.”

They stood, backs to the wall for a moment, listening to the rhythm of the rumble. It was certainly someone speaking, close enough that they at least could discern the stops and starts of a conversation. Jean watched Javert’s free hand open and close into a fist and wondered what was amiss, when he came to same sudden conclusion. 

“We shall have to douse the light,” Jean said, “or else they will know we are coming.”

Javert nodded, an unhappy look on his face. 

“I do not like it,” he said. “But I think we must be close now, and all we have now is the chance to surprise them.”

“Then it must be done. We will go slowly.”

Jean doused the torch, and they were plunged into a perfect darkness. They kept in their place as their eyes adjusted to the dark. Then, slowly, Jean realised that he could see; the slightest glow came from the tunnel ahead of them, a light so weak that it almost was not there at all. It was a light that could only come from the villains, for who else would be down in this godforsaken place?

“They’re close!” Javert muttered. “And now we must have a plan, Jean. I should go first, with the pistol. If I can get a jump on one of them, we will have the upper hand from the start.”

“Assuming they also don’t have pistols,” Jean reminded him. “But you should try and get to the boy, Montparnasse. I have no doubt he is the leader.”

“Yes,” Javert said, and squeezed his hand, before moving around him and stepping carefully towards down the tunnel. Jean remembered, following him, that it had been years since Javert led an ambush like this with the police, when before apprehending criminals had been one of his greatest skills. He often complained that he had been side-lined in his old age and now here he was, about to lead once more into the lion’s den. No wonder he was nervous, no wonder Jean could feel the heat pouring from him as they made their way down the tunnel. 

The light got stronger with every step. As they rounded a corner, hands pressed to the stone for guidance, suddenly they had arrived, and had to quickly take a step back into the shadows. 

The tunnel had opened sharply out into a small cave, large enough for the stacks of wooden boxes that filled it, and the four men, who sat about on the boxes, talking to one another. 

Brujon was there, and yes – Montparnasse, looking more his thirty years than he had his twenty-one but still lithe and dangerous. Claquesous, was grey-haired now, the oldest of the group, with a walking stick balanced across his knees. 

And the fourth – Jean pressed a hand to his mouth to stifle the groan, for there was Émile’s friend, the red-headed fisherman, his hands on his knees and a small smile on his freckled face. 

Émile, as far as he could see, was not with them. 

The touch of Javert’s hand to his made him start, but he did not make a sound. Javert waited to meet his gaze, and then inclined his head. Jean understood. Javert was going to slip around the edge of the cave, use the crates and the shadows for cover, and get to Montparnasse, as they had planned. 

“On my signal,” Javert murmured into his ear, and then he was gone, his feet making not a sound upon the floor. Jean crouched, watched the air around Montparnasse until it seemed to thicken, and then, like a shadow, Javert was there. Jean could feel Javert’s eyes upon him, a second of burning gaze, and then a voice rang out. 

“I had hoped that I had seen the last of the Patron-Minette.”

As he spoke, Javert stepped out from his hiding place and grabbed Montparnasse around his neck, pressed the pistol to the man’s head. At the same time, Jean burst forwards from his cover and threw himself at Brujon. They both crashed to the floor, Brujon trying to turn and get his hands around Jean’s neck. Jean bore down on him with all of his weight and Brujon roared. 

“Oh do shut up,” Montparnasse said. “Brujon, be quiet. I am captured, can you not see?”

Brujon went still and Jean pinned his hands behind him, glancing up to see Montparnasse grinning, even as Javert pressed the pistol to his temple. Claquesous had not moved, only to clench his walking stick in his hands, but the fisherman had jumped to his feet and now stood uncertainly, eyes flickering between Montparnasse and Brujon.

“Good evening, Inspector,” Montparnasse said. “Or should I say Commissioner, these days. It really has been too long. Is this any way to greet an old friend?”

Claquesous chuckled darkly, and Jean turned his eyes to him. The man was old now, almost as old as he was, but that did not mean he was not still a danger. 

“Enough,” Javert growled, running a practiced hand over Montparnasse's coat, removing a pistol and a knife that he tossed away into the darkness. “Where is the boy?”

Javert was standing behind Montparnasse, so he did not see the look pass over his face that Jean did, and even before he could reply, Jean knew what he was going to say. 

“What boy would that be, my dear Commissioner?”

The fisherman, silent until then, cleared his throat. 

“They think – we have the old man’s grandson.”

“Oh, that boy,” Montparnasse managed to shrug, even in Javert’s iron grip. “We haven’t seen him. We aren’t in the habit of smuggling children. No money to be made in them, you know. Not in London, anyway.”

“Wouldn’t have let the brat get close enough,” Claquesous spoke, his voice wet and rasping. “Brujon would have broken his worthless neck before he let him in here.”

As though to agree, Brujon shifted his weight beneath Jean, and tried to wriggle free. Jean grappled with him, his blood running hot beneath his skin at Claquesous’ words, as though Brujon had already done the deed as he’d described it. Javert forced Montparnasse to his knees with the gun at his head, when Claquesous moved suddenly, faster than his frail appearance would suggest, and brought his cane down hard on Javert’s hand. 

Javert cried out, and dropped the pistol from his broken hand. In a flash, Montparnasse was on his feet, and Jean felt the fisherman leap upon own back and pull him away from Brujon. He could not fight two of them. Brujon made short work of reversing their positions, forcing Jean into the dirt face-down and pinning his wrists behind his back as the fisherman fetched rope to bind him. 

“Javert!” Jean called, his mouth full of dirt. “Javert!”

“Jean-”

Javert broke off abruptly. Jean turned his head to see Montparnasse had picked up the pistol and had forced Javert to his knees. Javert’s eyes were fixed on Jean’s face and he was mouthing some words, but Jean did not understand them. The look on Javert’s face was stricken and then Jean understood what he was saying. 

“I’m sorry,” Javert said, again and again. “I am sorry.”

“Well, it’s been lovely to catch up,” Montparnasse said, handing the pistol over to Claquesous and bending down to remove yet another knife from his boot. “But we really must be off soon. And I always told that bastard Thénardier that he made a mistake in letting either of you live. I won’t be repeating his error.”

Jean yelled as the pistol was cocked, and fought against the ropes, his head pinned by Brujon so he could not see what caused the commotion, and then there was a terrible sound as a shot was fired.

“Javert!” he screamed, and then a blow struck him on the back of the head, and all went dark.


	30. In the Smugglers’ Lair

It used to be said that Inspector Javert was fearless in the field. As young guard in the bagne of Toulon, he had faced down a prison riot and taken on four men armed with nothing but his truncheon; examining himself in the moment, he knew he was utterly without fear. In his career in the police, he had arrested bandits and criminals without blinking an eye; his ferocious stare caused guns to misfire and boulders to fall harmlessly away. 

Then, he had been filled with the bright, fierce certainty that his life was not worth more than the arm of the Law; that he had nothing in his life more important to him than bringing malefactors to justice.

Now, things were very different. On his knees in the dirt of the cave, his own pistol pointed to his head, he was gripped with terror. Not for his own life, but for that one thing which was more important to him than justice and the law and the entire world combined.

Jean Valjean, pinned to the ground by that devil Brujon and a young man which Valjean had named Émile’s fisherman friend. Jean Valjean, helpless — and the sight was even more agonising to Javert than the white-hot pain in his right hand.

Then someone cleared his throat, theatrically, and Javert dragged his attention back to Montparnasse, who grinned as he gestured expansively with the pistol. 

“Well, Commissioner! How easily the tables are turned!”

“Indeed,” Javert said, dully. He couldn’t feel his fingers. He wondered if he could bring himself to beg for his life; he knew, however, that he would do anything to save Valjean’s.

Montparnasse cocked his head to one side. The dim light of the lantern outlined his still-handsome head, and lit up the craggy rocks behind it. Javert blinked hard; the shadows behind Montparnasse seemed to be moving, as if to wreath the man in shifting darkness as well as light.

Then the shadows resolved into a familiar, small, determined face. 

“I am sorry,” Javert said. The words tumbled from him, he was gripped by tremendous relief, and a redoubled, tremendous fear — that this precious boy was safe, but that he would now have to bear witness as to how badly Javert had failed both him and his grandfather. “I am so sorry.”

“I’m sure you are,” Montparnasse sniffed, but Javert wasn’t talking to him.

 _I’m not sorry_ , Émile mouthed, very distinctly. _I’m ready_.

“Then strike,” Javert said, and held his breath.

“As you wish,” Montparnasse grinned. “It’s been lovely to catch up, but we really should be off.” He made rather a show of handing the gun to Claquesous, and then took a step back, bending over to retrieve a last, hidden knife from his boot, which he then lifted in a salute.

“We really must be off soon. I always told that bastard Thénardier that he made a mistake in letting either of you live. I won’t be repeating his error.”

“Strike _now_ ,” Javert said; Claquesous cocked the pistol with a practised gesture, and took careful aim —

— and Émile burst out of hiding, a rock in his hand, and he brought it crashing down upon Montparnasse’s head.

Javert flung himself forward. Forty years of policing instinct — dealing with misfires and dodging boulders — had not been blunted by age. As if he was forty again, he seized Claquesous’ gun arm and shoved it upwards.

He heard the gun fire harmlessly into the ceiling. Well, that was one more bullet dodged.

Claquesous screamed — Javert wasn’t sure if it was from surprise, or from the pain of the gun being ripped from his hand. Probably a bit of both. He solved that dilemma by clubbing Claquesous in the temple with the gun, and then he turned to Montparnasse and Émile.

Émile was standing over Montparnasse’s crumpled form, still holding the rock and looking distinctly green around the gills.

“Well done, boy,” Javert said, tersely, and levelled the gun in the direction of Brujon and the fisherman.

The fisherman was nowhere in sight. Brujon seemed to have frozen where he knelt on the ground, his weight pressed against Valjean’s back. Javert’s breath stopped in his throat: Valjean wasn’t moving, and his body had gone limp.

“Get up slowly,” Javert said to Brujon. “Hands where I can see them. I won’t tell you again.”

“Coward,” Brujon muttered; he was probably referring to the fisherman. “Never had the stomach for hard work. And these idiots always talked too much, even now.”

“You’d think they would have learned their lesson. But then, you’ll remember Patron-Minette could never get the better of me. Now, on your feet, and turn around. Be quick about it. You know I won’t miss.”

Brujon hesitated, as if he was thinking about bargaining with Javert — perhaps with Valjean’s life — but then he looked as though he thought the better of it. Perhaps he did remember that encounter at the Gorbeau House, when Thenardier’s gun had misfired and Madame’s paving stone had missed, and Javert had remained entirely unscathed. He wasn’t to know that Javert was now a different man, one who now knew the meaning of his own life. 

Very slowly, the criminal got off Valjean and rose to his feet, hands in the air. He turned as Javert bade, and Javert positioned the gun at the back of his head.

“Very sensible,” Javert said, with a jovial confidence that he did not feel. Without taking his eyes from Brujon, he held his free arm out to Émile.

Émile had collected the kitten, and the two of them sidled over to Javert. Javert allowed himself to drape his forearm over Émile’s shoulder and gave the boy a quick squeeze, careful not to jostle his injured hand. Now the hot rush of blood was ebbing, he felt every single one of his sixty years.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes?” Émile looked very dirty, but he seemed none the worse for wear. “I got into the cart to see what was hidden there, and couldn’t get out in time before they drove off. Did you find my note?”

“We did. That was quick-thinking of you.” Javert took hold of his emotions; it would not do to let his fears for Valjean rise to the surface, for they would undo him. Tersely, he asked Émile, “Do you think you can go over there and tell me how your grandfather is?”

Émile gulped, and nodded. Javert took a deep breath and prodded Brujon with the pistol. “As for you: face down on the ground.”

Brujon took his time obeying, even with Javert’s knee in his back. Javert was sorely tempted to shoot the giant in the head just to get it over with. It took even longer to bind the man with rope; Javert was slowly regaining the use of his injured hand, but he missed his old manacles which could easily be secured one-handed.

“Monsieur Javert, Grand-père’s breathing,” Émile said in a small voice, and Javert nearly sagged in relief. “Only… only there is a bruise on his temple, and he doesn’t seem to be waking up.”

Javert ground his teeth together; it took all his willpower not to strike Brujon with the pistol and keep striking him until he had repaid Valjean’s bruises a hundredfold. He fought down that urge, of course — he would not subject any man to undue police brutality, and besides, doing violence would not help Valjean now. 

Instead, he rose and made his way over to Montparnasse and Claquesous. He ascertained that both men were still breathing, and then used the last of the ropes to truss the two of them up securely. Regaining movement in his hand was useful, but it also meant that it was now starting to hurt like the devil, and he had to set his teeth against the pain.

Once that was done, he picked his way over to Valjean and Émile. The boy had managed to free Valjean from his bonds, and was carefully wiping his grandfather’s face with a dirty handkerchief. The kitten had crawled out of his pocket and had curled against Valjean’s shoulder, mewing mournfully.

Javert knew it wasn’t safe to stay where they were — the fisherman had escaped, and could return with reinforcements at any time. It would be hours before Daubigny would be aware that they had left Vue Mer, let alone where they had gone. They had to devise a way to retrace their steps and leave this place.

But for a moment, Javert felt his strength falter. The fearless, implacable Inspector drained away; in his place was the man who had discovered, very late in life, what it was that made that life worth living, and had learned to fear when he had learned to love.

It was that man who folded to his knees, and lifted Valjean’s head into his lap, and closed his eyes.


	31. Some Strange Dreams

A pair of warm hands were touching his face, hands with wide fingers and soft fingertips that gently brushed his hair back from his forehead. Jean turned into the touch, then opened his eyes. He started - he was not expecting the face that hovered above him. 

“My son,” Bishop Myriel smiled. “We haven’t seen one another for so long.”

Dread flooded Jean’s stomach and he sat up so quickly that his head span.

“Javert!”

“Be calm, Jean,” the bishop said, laying a hand on his head. “Tis only a dream. You will wake when you are ready.”

As he got to his feet, a sharp sting went through Jean’s shoulder, where Brujon had wrenched his arm behind his back, and his head pounded. Surely there wouldn’t be pain like this if he was dead, he thought, and his racing heart began to slow.

“What happened?”

“I do not know any more than you,” the bishop said serenely, gliding over to the table that had appeared, and sitting down. “But as I am here, why not talk awhile with me?”

As he stepped towards the table, Jean felt as though his body was falling, and did not have time to cry out before he was lying on the floor of the cave, his head resting on something soft. He blinked, cringing against the pain in his head, and hardly believed that he could hear the voice talking to him. 

“Grand-père, you’re awake! Monsieur Javert, he’s awake!”

“Émile?” Jean rasped, and his grandson’s face appeared before him. His hair was a mess, and his face was dirty, but he was alive. He was well.

“Where have you been? We were worried about you!”

“I am safe, and so is Monsieur Javert! I’ll find some water!”

The boy scrabbled to his feet and Jean tried to focus on the things around him. There were fingers again, stroking at his hair, and he tried to turn. 

“Javert?”

“Shh, Jean.” Javert murmured. He had his hand tucked in his shirt, and his face was white. Jean remembered the crack of Claquesous’ stick and Javert’s cry of pain, and he tried to sit up. His head pounded, and he fell back. 

“The boy is well,” Javert whispered. “And the villains unable to do more mischief. And when I have rested, we will go home.”

His words were more determined than the voice which spoke them, but Jean could not answer him. He was tired and – 

“Jean, stay awake. Please!”

The bishop was still sitting at the table, and Jean took the chair opposite him. He did not wince through the pain, for at least it was a sign that he was still alive. 

“He is a good man. The inspector.”

It was not what Jean expected the bishop to say, and for a moment he was thrown. But then, if this was a dream, perhaps it made sense. 

“He is,” he said simply. “The best of men.”

“You have done well, with the chance that I gave to you. Very well.”

Bishop Myriel’s face was hazy, the memory of it not quite what it once had been, but Jean would never forget the warmth in the man’s eyes, and he ducked his head, his cheeks burning at the praise. How often had he wished he could show the bishop how hard he had tried? How much he had tried to do, and how much it had cost him? 

The world tilted around him and Jean opened his eyes to find his face pressed into the rough fabric of Javert’s shirt, and a small hand that could only be Émile’s held tightly to one of his. He curled his fingers as best he could, and felt Émile squeeze them back.

“Do not worry, Papa,” Cosette said, her voice far away. “I trust you with my life. And his.”

“I failed you.”

“You did not,” Cosette spoke again. “I do not think you have ever failed anyone in your life. Least of all me.”

“Marius –”

“Worships you. Sleep now. You need to heal. They need you.”

“She is like you, Jean,” said another soft voice in his ear, and he turned his head to see he was now seated by a river, and the voice belonged to Jeanne. He chuckled. If he had known how easy it was to summon the ghosts of the past, he could have hit himself on the head long ago. 

“It’s your mind,” Jeanne said, as though he had spoken out loud. “We’ve been here all along.”

“I know,” he said, and in the distance he heard the shrieks of children at play. “Maybe I have been afraid. Of seeing you again.”

Jeanne hadn’t aged a day, not since the morning that the gendarmes had torn him away from her, and he supposed she never would. Not in his dreams anyway. Perhaps it was better like that. 

“I missed you,” he said, holding her hand. “I still do.”

“I know,” she kissed his cheek. “But look at what you have now, Jean. I’d never have begrudged you a thing that would make you happy.”

“The children –”

“They grew,” Jeanne said. “Or at least – you want to believe that they did.”

“Did they?”

“You know I do not know the answer to that.”

Jean hung his head and gazed down at their hands. Even her hands were as he remembered them. 

“Maybe they did. I can believe that they did.”

“You can.” She leaned her head against his shoulder. “If you need to, believe it.”

In the distance, the sound of the children was drowned out by the crash of waves, and Jean woke to find himself laid out on the wet sand. Above him, the sky was turning the pale blue of early morning, and God how his head ached. 

“It is all right, Grand-père,” Émile said. “Monsieur Javert is resting now. Someone will see us soon.”

Jean groaned and turned his head to see Javert on his knees, panting as though he had been running for hours. His bad hand was cradled in his other and, as Jean watched, Émile crept towards him. He took out his handkerchief and asked Javert for his own, then wrapped the hand as best he could. Jean saw the twitch of Javert’s jaw as he allowed Émile to administer to him, and Jean knew Javert was battling against snapping at the boy. 

Then, from high above them, a gull screamed, and Émile leapt to his feet, running and shouting. Jean cried out as a whip-sharp pain went through his head. 

The last thing he saw was Javert struggling to his feet, calling his name.


	32. The Long Walk

So much for feeling forty again. With every step that he took, his sinews aching and his breath rattling in his lungs, Commissioner Javert felt every moment of his sixty years. 

In his arms he held the man he had pursued for years — from the time he _was_ forty, when they were in the prime of both their lives. A man whom he now lived with, and had grown older with, and with whom he was, criminals and children notwithstanding, intending to live out the years they both had left.

Valjean was a deadweight; his muscles still hefty and powerful as they had been on that night, twenty years ago when Javert had occasion to grapple with Montreuil’s mayor and come off the worse. As Valjean was now, at seventy, he would likely have had an easier time of it carrying Javert than Javert was having today.

And Javert was not having an easy time of it. 

His bad hand jolted painfully, but it paled in comparison to the strain in his shoulders, thighs and bad leg as he bore Valjean down the path through the caves. They were moving as quickly as he could manage, what with keeping his footing in the darkness and keeping his grip on his charge — which was agonisingly slowly, given that the escaped fisherman could return with reinforcements at any time. 

The going would probably be marginally easier if he could have carried Valjean on his back, over his shoulders. But Javert could not bring himself to do that; the position might hurt Valjean’s injured head. And so he carried Valjean in his arms as if he were a child, with his white head resting securely against his shoulder. 

In the intermittent light, Valjean’s face looked serene, as if he might be asleep. He always looked younger in his sleep; youthful as the truly pure of heart seem youthful. Javert wanted to believe this meant Valjean was not badly hurt, despite his unconsciousness. Valjean had roused briefly during their last rest stop, and spoke intelligibly to them, so of course the harm was merely temporary — it would take more than one petty criminal to get the best of Jean Valjean. In any case, Javert would accept nothing less, for the alternative was unimaginable.

Ahead of them walked Émile, the kitten in his arms, keeping a look-out. The boy was holding up remarkably well, all things considering — he had not wept even once, although it was obviously hard for him to see his grandfather helpless like this, not to mention the bravery it had taken to strike down a man to defend Javert. 

Another fifty steps, past the misshapen boulder that Javert remembered had marked the mid-point of their journey, where the path levelled out for a stretch, and Javert had to call a halt. He set Valjean carefully down on the ground, and seated himself, breathing heavily from his exertions.

Émile crouched beside him. After Javert had got his breath back, the boy offered him a small flask.

“Here is some water, Monsieur.”

Javert drank deeply from the container. The water tasted faintly salty, but it was potable. “Where did you get this from?”

“Nurse packed water and some toast for our trip. I finished the water yesterday, but I found a fresh water spring near the caves.”

“You knew not to drink from the sea?”

A ghost of a smile crossed Émile’s face. “I read about it in Monsieur Wyss’ novel. I know not everything in books is real, but I thought this sounded like good advice.”

Javert had not read the book in question, but it did seem like the sort of improving literature that he would endorse. “How very resourceful of you.” He paused, wondering how best to phrase his next comment. He knew how little experience dealing with children he had, and knew how his own feelings about Émile’s escapade were mixed at best. Eventually, he decided on, “Surely you know how worried your grandfather was about you.”

Émile hung his head a little. “I know. I’m sorry. I know I ought not have left Nurse, Monsieur. Truly, I only meant to look into the cart, and then I was going to climb out and summon help! Maybe I should not have looked at all! — Only, I did think that the criminals ought not be allowed to get away, and I thought about what you would do if you had been there instead of me.”

Javert had to close his eyes for a moment. He was unsure whether he was feeling relief or pride or exasperation. Maybe it was a combination of all these things. “Next time, think about your grandfather, and of how worried your mother would be! She entrusted you to us over the summer, and trusted you not to put yourself at risk.”

Émile hung his head lower, and his chin wobbled slightly. Javert sighed, and then he placed his good arm around the boy’s shoulders. “That said, what you did was bravely done. All of it.”

Émile looked up at Javert hesitantly. “Do you think so?” he asked. “I didn’t feel very brave! I was too afraid at first to follow the men into the caves. I got off the cart and hid and watched them carry the boxes into the cave. But then I told myself that you would have gone after them. I was going to sneak out when the criminals fell asleep. Only, you and Grand-père came before then.”

“That we did. And you are not wrong about what we would have done, because we did indeed head into the caves when we realised that this was the gang’s hideout.” Javert sighed again: he could not blame Émile, for Valjean and he had been just as ready to put themselves at risk in the name of justice, and of protecting those whom they loved.

Émile was silent for a long moment before saying, in a small voice, “We will get out of here, won’t we, Monsieur?”

Javert rubbed Émile’s shoulders briskly. “Certainly. Your grandfather is indestructible. And as for me — did I tell you about the last time I faced down these very criminals in Paris?”

“Papa mentioned something like it,” Émile said, his eyes shining. “Will you tell me the story?”

“I will, when we get back to Vue Mer. But first, we need to get out of here.”

 

*

 

They walked on once more. They needed to stop more frequently though, as Javert realised his strength was fading. He knew he was not as young as he was, but he did not relish feeling this old, particularly when he had Valjean and the boy depending on him.

“…not old,” Valjean murmured, rousing briefly during one of their rest stops, and Javert’s heart lifted with relief.

“Grand-père, you’re awake again!” Émile flung his arms around Valjean, who clasped the boy back.

Javert said, awkwardly, “I did not realise I was speaking out loud.”

“Were you?” Valjean asked, smiling tiredly, then he winced in pain.

Javert put a hand to Valjean’s forehead. “How bad is it?”

“I’ll live.” Valjean tried to smile once more, but it was hardly convincing. Javert knew he needed to get the man to a doctor as quickly as possible.

“Can you stand?”

“I can try,” Valjean murmured, but when Javert and Émile assisted him to his feet, he went limp again.

“Grand-père!”

“Nearly there,” Javert said to Émile, with a certainty he did not feel, and hoisted Valjean once more into his arms.

They continued painstakingly along the path, which eventually came to a fork that Javert did not recall. Down one of the paths, there seemed to be a faint light. “This way!” Émile said, hastening in the direction of the light.

Javert followed, his muscles burning and heart labouring, Valjean cradled to his heart.

Up ahead of them, it seemed the path was coming to an end. Javert could see the faint glow of dawn in the distance.

“Nearly there,” Javert said again, as much to Valjean as to himself.

It took several agonising yards of ascent, but at last they staggered from the rocks into the open. It was early morning; the sky was pink with sunrise. Salt sea air had never smelled as welcome.

Javert lowered Valjean to the sand, and then knelt beside him. For a moment, he couldn’t speak, his muscles locked in a spasm of agony.

When he managed to gather enough of himself to look around, he realised that this path had not been the one through which Valjean and he had entered. This one led directly to a small bay, surrounded by the rocky cliffs. A small vessel had been pulled up onto the sandy shelf. Clearly this was the point where the smugglers could bring their cargo in and out of the caves, undetectable to any of La Douane’s foot patrols surveilling the beachfront. 

The sound of the waves on the shore was almost peaceful. In the distance, Javert could hear seabirds calling to each other.

Valjean’s lips moved. “I can hear children playing,” he murmured. He sounded feverish, and not himself. “I have not seen them in so long.”

Javert tried to speak calmly, although his heart was gripped with sudden terror. “Valjean, we’re safe now. We will be home very soon.” 

“I am home,” Valjean repeated, in a delirious voice. “I am home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Émile references Johann Wyss’ _The Swiss Family Robinson_ , about a shipwrecked family learning to survive and thrive on a desert island.


	33. A Quiet Night

After that was the blessed painless sleep, at least until Jean woke with a start, Jeanne’s voice ringing once more in his ears. 

“I should think it is about time that you woke now, Jean. People are waiting for you.” 

She was right, of course, and he forced his eyes open with a groan. 

He was on his bed at Vue Mer, and the pain in his head was so sharp that he was sure he was actually awake now, and not drifting in and out of consciousness. It was dark outside, the room shrouded in blackness, and he stumbled when he got to his feet to use the chamber pot. Aside from the ache in his shoulders and the pain in his head, he was well. 

He used the pot and drank from the jug at the basin before turning back to bed. As he clambered onto it, he was suddenly aware of someone else in the room; deep, even breathing from the chair that was hidden in the shadows of the corner. 

“Javert,” he rasped, then cleared his throat and called again: “Javert?”

“Jean?” Javert appeared at his side so quickly it hardly seemed that he could have been asleep. “How do you feel?”

“I could sleep another three days. What happened?”

The edge of the bed dipped as Javert sank onto it, and a searching hand groped for Jean’s. He took it, and lay down again. He could not hold his head up for long enough to sit any longer. 

“It was looking grim,” Javert murmured, “You were – Brujon had you, and Claquesous had the pistol to my head. But Émile – he saved us, Jean. I firmly believe neither you nor I would be here if he had not been so brave.”

Javert’s voice was soft, but his grip on Jean’s hand was rather harder than necessary, and he was trembling as though he had not yet recovered from the fear. He probably had not, and Jean could hardly blame him. He thanked God that if had seen Javert with a gun to his head, he could not remember it. Javert had no such luck. 

“How did we get out of the caves?”  
“I carried you.”

“My God, Javert. And you are still standing?” Jean chuckled, his eyes closed, and then it came to him in a flash – the crack of Claquesous’ cane and Javert’s cry of pain.

“Your hand! I remember it.”

He groped across Javert’s body to his other arm, and his fingertips found the bulk of a bandage there. Javert hissed when his probing fingers touched it, and Jean drew back.

“The doctor thinks it is not broken,” Javert said shortly. “He has wrapped it as best he can.”

Jean felt the heat of anger, and then sharp relief, rise in his throat. Things could have been so much worse. How close had he come to losing it all? An aching head was hardly a price that he minded paying. He grabbed at where he believed Javert’s nightshirt to be, and tugged him close. Javert came to him willingly, his eager, desperate mouth finding Jean’s in the dark, and they clung to one another until Jean could not breathe.

“But your head,” Javert said, as Jean reluctantly pulled away. “How is it?”

“I will survive, I’m sure.”

Javert had shifted to the edge of the bed and the rustle of fabric suggested he was battling with the buttons on his trousers. There was a creak as he moved and cursed, and Jean laid a hand on his shoulder. 

“I will light a candle for a moment. I do not mind the brightness.”

He sat up and found the candlestick at his bedside, and lit it. It did not help much, but it was enough for him to see Javert, struggling with his one hand. 

“Come here,” Jean said, and was pleased when Javert did not argue with him. Rather he walked slowly, as though he was aching, round to Jean’s side of the bed. Jean made short work of the buttons, and accepted Javert’s muttered thanks graciously. Then he looked up at his face.   
Javert had a blackened eye on his right side, and a vivid red cut on the side of his forehead that could only have come from grappling with one or the other of the villains, but he was alive and he was well. In the dim light of the candle, his eyes were soft as they gazed down at Jean, and he reached out with his uninjured hand to stroke at Jean’s hair. It reminded Jean of the bishop, in his dream, and he had to close his eyes tightly. 

“What is it?”

“I dreamed. Strange, wonderful dreams.”

Javert’s hand stilled on his hair, and then he sat down at Jean’s side, pressed closely to him. Jean was relieved to know he was not the only one feeling more than a little vulnerable after their ordeal.

“Tell me,” Javert said.

So he did, about the bishop and what the man had said to him. Javert blushed to hear the praise, but he did not tell him to stop. Then there was Jeanne. She was much harder to speak of.

“I wondered if you ever knew what had become of her,” Javert muttered, when Jean was finished and had laid his head on Javert’s shoulder. “I never asked you.”

“I don’t suppose there is any way of knowing,” Jean said, although saying it out loud after so many years of silence made it hard. “And I am not sure that I want to find out.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well…if by some miracle they lived – or some of them lived, then they would not want to know me. And if they didn’t — if – if they died because I abandoned them, I do not think I could bear to know it for certain. Much better that I can pretend at least that they might have survived.”

He was squeezing Javert’s hand too tightly, he was sure, but the man did not tell him to stop, nor did he argue with him. Aside from his mother, almost certainly dead now, Javert would not understand his hesitation.

“And anyway,” Jean murmured, “I have my family. Here and now, and safe still. I must be contented with that.”

“You’re a lucky man,” Javert said, moving as though he would turn away. 

“I am. Far luckier than I deserve. I have a daughter and a son, and three grandchildren. And I have you.”

Jean lay back on his pillows and pulled Javert after him, mindful of his hand. Javert did not resist, and soon they were laid nose to nose, sharing the pillow. Javert had a strange look on his face, and Jean knew that he was exhausted. In shock, even, as he always was when he received a blow to his newly discovered heart, and losing Émile had been a terrible blow, no matter how Javert might deny it. 

“Kiss me,” Javert said suddenly, his voice low. “Please.”

Jean was more than happy to oblige him, pressing kisses to Javert’s face before finally settling on his mouth. He ran his fingertips over Javert’s ear, where he knew that Javert would gasp if he touched it in just the right way. When he did, Jean smiled against his lips. 

How long they kissed for he did not know, but Javert had more than that in mind. He pressed as closely to Jean has he could and began to move lazily against him. Jean responded, pushed a thigh in between Javert’s legs and put a hand on his back to draw him closer still. They were both tired and the grind was slow, but it was warm between them and Javert clung to him, and it was good. Very good, and when Javert finally came with a shudder, Jean needed only to reach down and lay a hand on himself before he finished too. 

With a last gasp of energy, Javert fetched a cloth for them to wash themselves, and then collapsed back into Jean’s arms. He did not speak, as he often did when overwhelmed, but Jean did not mind it. He shut his eyes against the headache and kissed the top of Javert’s head. 

His family was safe.


	34. An Honour Unlooked-For

Javert was not the most religious of men, but even he could not fail to appreciate the providence that the Almighty had bestowed upon him. The fact that Valjean was alive and recovering, that Émile was safe, that they had escaped from the caves with their lives and had even brought the criminal gang to rights — these were gifts from God.

Valjean had spent the day after their rescue drifting in and out of consciousness. The doctor suspected a bad concussion; of course, Javert would not have left his side, and indeed he had not, spending the day in the chair by Valjean’s bed. But now that Valjean was on the mend, and Javert had had a decent night’s sleep in his arms, it was time to get to work once again.

That was what his conscience told him, at any rate. The rest of him was reluctant to rise from Valjean’s bed to face the day. He lingered over his ablutions, hampered by his injured hand, pretending he was not watching the man’s sleeping face.

Valjean woke, yawning, just as Javert finished dressing. He squinted at Javert’s navy-blue uniform, which thus far Javert had not had occasion to wear in Étaples.

“I did not realise you packed so efficiently for our holiday!”

“I thought it best to be prepared,” Javert said, stiffly. He took hold of his uniform hat and cane, and walked over to the bed.

Valjean smiled his faint, wry smile. “And why have you pressed your uniform into service today?”

“I am heading into the station house to see about the criminals.” One of Daubigny’s men had sent word the day before, to the effect that when the rescue party had descended into the caves, they had discovered the three smugglers tied where Javert had left them. The criminals had been brought to the cells in the station house, somewhat the worse for wear from their night in the caves without food and water, but nevertheless well enough to be held accountable for their crimes.

Valjean was silent for a moment. Then he said, “I will not ask you to shirk your duties, but you would note you are not yet entirely yourself.”

“The day I need both hands to enforce the law is the day I retire,” Javert said, grimly.

Valjean said, with some diffidence, “I’m sure that is so. But for the time being, you might wish to go gently with your one hand, Commissioner.”

Javert held back his automatic scoffing rejoinder. Instead, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to Valjean’s mouth. “I find I cannot deny you anything.” 

Valjean snorted. “You know I would only make the request for your sake. Please tell Madame Thomas whether she should expect you back for luncheon.”

 

 

 

When Javert descended to the dining room, he found that Émile had already risen, and was tucking into a large, cooked breakfast with gusto. Javert was not sure how much Madame Thomas believed one boy could eat, but Émile actually seemed to be justifying her faith in him. He’d never been much of an eater; perhaps his time in the caves had finally wakened his appetite.

Madame Thomas greeted him and set a cup of coffee before him. Javert thanked her awkwardly: he was most grateful for her kindness in the family’s time of need, and it would be indeed churlish of him to shy away from her attentions.

Then he turned to Émile. “You’re looking well this morning.”

“Good morning, Monsieur.” Émile put his fork down. “How is Grand-père?”

“Much recovered. You may take the other children in to see him after he has himself had something to eat.”

“Ah, Monsieur Fauchelevent is awake! Let me take the breakfast things to him,” said Madame Thomas, getting up. The tray she had prepared for Valjean seemed even vaster than the one she had prepared for Émile.

“That’s good. I was worried.” Émile’s lips tightened for a moment, and then he added, “But I shouldn’t have been. You got us home safe, Monsieur Javert, like you promised you would.”

Javert was temporarily at a loss for words. With some difficulty, he reached across and took the boy’s hand. “You did very well, too, Émile. You were very brave indeed.”

Émile made a sniffling noise, and clung to Javert’s hand; Javert awkwardly held on until the boy regained control of himself.

Javert was spared further awkwardness by Bernard entering the dining room to say that a policeman had come to call. At first Javert thought it was another of Daubigny’s men, but when Bernard showed their visitor into the living room, it turned out to be someone far better dressed than the officers on Étaples’ police force.

A man in uniform, still earnest and youthful despite the grey in his curly hair: Desmarais of the First Bureau of the Prefecture of Police in Paris. 

“Commissioner Javert!”

“What are you doing here? You surely did not come all this way to see us?” Javert asked, shocked, as his friend clasped his hand and shook it warmly.

“I would have, you know, if I’d heard you had been hurt in the line of duty! No, I came because I heard you had captured one of our notorious fugitives on suspicion of smuggling. And when I arrived, I was told you had cracked the case and captured the rest of Patron Minette.” Desmarais smiled in admiring disbelief. “I would not have countenanced it, Monsieur, but you managed what the Étaples police and La Douane could not in all their months of investigation.”

“A coincidence,” Javert said. “I was told La Douane had indeed pursued the same line of enquiries as I did, into the newcomer from Paris who was employing the temporary dock workers and who had goods from England to move. They would have caught on to the gang sooner or later. It was just a coincidence that I recognised our friend Brujon, who had of course adopted a new name.”

“Yes. It seems our other friend, Claquesous, chose to re-invent himself as a Parisian shipping magnate, a lucrative second career. La Douane found papers on him and in his bolt-hole in town belonging to the Daniel identity. Not very good papers, but enough to persuade the local harbour authorities that he had a legitimate business. To his credit, it seems he and his cronies have been keeping a low profile in Étaples, and they were clearly planning on moving quietly along now that La Douane had finally gotten onto the scent. But they did not reckon on encountering you.”

Javert said, awkwardly, “I was glad to be of help.”

“You did more than that,” Desmarais said earnestly. “You risked your life for the investigation! I was told that your friend, M. Fauchelevent, was injured by the criminals, and that it was feared his young grandson had been kidnapped by them.”

“That is so, but Émile had not in fact been kidnapped. He recognised Brujon at the docks, and followed him, and was mistakenly transported together with the smuggled goods to the criminals’ hiding spot. He left us a note, and his sister reminded us of the caves in the vicinity, and M. Fauchelevent and I put two and two together.”

“That was a neat piece of detective work,” Desmarais began, when the both of them became aware of a shy shadow lurking in the doorway.

Javert held out his uninjured arm. “Come here, Émile. Let me introduce you to M. Desmarais of the First Bureau of the Prefecture of Police in Paris.”

“Hello,” Émile said, bashfully, as Daubigny shook his hand.

“Young man, I understand you have had a busy few days! You have been very brave. The government of France owes you a great debt for your part in helping bring the criminals to justice.”

Émile blushed. “Really? I didn’t feel very brave. It was all Grand-père, and M. Javert — they followed me into the caves and fought with the gang.”

“And you saved me,” Javert said, and surprised himself by putting his arm around the boy.

Desmarais said, “Indeed! I will be putting in a recommendation for medals for you and for M. Fauchelevent. You are too young for governmental honours, Émile, but never fear, your part will be mentioned in my report to the Prefecture.”

Émile’s mouth opened, awe-struck at the prospect. Javert frowned before he could help himself. Certainly Desmarais meant well, but Valjean could not put himself forward for any honours, given the issues with his past. It was a risk enough that Montparnasse and Claquesous would realise Valjean’s true identity, even if Brujon had not, and give the game away. He just needed to hope they did not remember Thénardier’s information. Perhaps the blows to the head would have scrambled their recollections.

To Desmarais, he said, stiffly, “Monsieur, there is no need. I have all the decorations I need, and M. Fauchelevent leads a very quiet life with a horror of fanfare. The honours would truly bring more harm than benefit to us both.”

“But you both deserve the recognition for your service,” Desmarais protested. “This is not the time for false modesty, my friend.”

“It would never be false modesty not to wish for a less complicated life,” Javert said, firmly. “Come, I was hoping to drop in at the station house, to see how our young inspector and his new remand prisoners were. When are we planning on removing them to Paris?”

Desmarais said, “The transport from Paris has already arrived, though it will be taking back three prisoners instead of one. As for the other men who worked for the Daniel identity, Daubigny and his men are interviewing them and will determine the extent of their involvement and criminal conduct, and my men and I will stay to assist in this effort. When La Douane has finished rooting out the goods from the caves, we will all make the journey back.”

Javert nodded in satisfaction. There was one more matter that had been troubling him. “There was another key member of the gang, a young fisherman, of the vessel _Kingfisher_. He was in the caves, but he escaped in the fighting.”

“Yes. I’m told his name is Burel. Daubigny has not managed to track him down.” Desmarais shrugged. “We are of course pursuing all leads, but it may be that he will be one of those criminals who will never be brought to justice.”

“That is unfortunate.” Javert firmly put aside all thoughts of fugitives who had managed to escape. “But you may be right, Monsieur.”

Desmarais shrugged again. “Would that all crimes could be so neatly solved! I bet this young man here would believe that policing is always as neat and efficient as it is in detective novels, eh?”

Émile smiled. “Not me,” he said. “I know policing is hard work! But perhaps I will become a policeman when I grow up, and one day I might be able to catch Monsieur Burel.”

Desmarais laughed out loud and clapped Émile on the back. “What an admirable goal! That is definitely the attitude of a tireless officer of the law.”


	35. The Return

The carriage had barely come to a stop before Fantine was tugging at the door handle. 

“Oh my kittens!” she said. “They will have missed me!”

Where once her exuberance might have upset other members of the party, this time it didn’t seem to bother them at all. Instead, Javert simply reached over her and opened the carriage door to release her, and Jean did not miss the indulgent eye roll that Javert shared with Émile once Fantine was gone. 

As Jean climbed out of the carriage with Georges in his arms, he watched Javert and Émile walk companionably up the garden path. Émile was a different child from the one who had argued his way up the same path with his sister at the start of the holiday. His adventures had changed him, even in the short time; he walked with his shoulders up and back, and he hadn’t coughed for days. Jean was more grateful than he could say that Émile didn’t seem to be suffering any ill effects from those events of the summer. It was going to be difficult enough to explain to Cosette what had happened. 

Toussaint greeted them at the open door, the beloved kittens and Orri at her feet. The cat feigned his usual indifference at the happy chaos around him, and almost was convincing, until he took a step to rub his head lazily against Jean’s leg.

“Don’t let him fool you,” Toussaint smiled. “He’s been very sore that you left him, monsieur.”

The journey had been a long one, and the children thankfully went to bed soon after their supper. Jean and Javert sat a while in the kitchen and gave Toussaint an abbreviated account of their adventures. She was suitably impressed, of course, but the real test would come tomorrow when Cosette and Marius returned. 

The next day, Javert woke Jean early. He was wearing his uniform, the bandage on his healing hand bulky beneath the sleeve. 

“I must go to the station,” Javert said, brushing his fingertips over Jean’s cheek. “But I will return before Cosette arrives. I promise it.”

“You do not need to promise,” Jean said, kissing those gentle fingers. “We will see you then.”

Javert was keen to see an end to the case. They had cut the holiday short by a few days so that he would be in Paris today; Patron-Minette, as they had reverted to calling them, had arrived in Paris on the transport and would be produced in court this morning. It was to be a simple enough process, Javert said. They would be formally identified and Brujon would be immediately returned to Toulon, this time as a lifer. Montparnasse and Claquesous would have to go to trial, but the evidence of this crime was sound, as well as any number of historic charges that could also be brought against them. 

Nurse was already up with Georges when Jean made his way downstairs, and he decided to give the woman the day off. She had mostly recovered from her ordeal – an ordeal that he did not blame her for – but he thought it best that she be away from the house when he told Cosette and Marius about what had happened. She would only fret about what they would say. Besides, she had quite earned some rest.

Jean and Georges breakfasted together. The kittens tumbled around their feet, pleased to be reunited with one another. 

“Whiskers is happy,” Georges said, matter-of-factly. “Happy he’s home.”

“You’re right, petit,” Jean nodded. “He had quite an adventure too.”

Émile and Fantine, doubtless exhausted by the travel, slept late, and were both subdued when they did appear in the kitchen. Neither of them wanted to play with the kittens, and they sat whispering to one another as Jean prepared them some breakfast. 

“What is wrong, mes petites?” he asked, putting a plate before each of them. “Are you not pleased to be home?”

“We had such a lovely holiday, Grand-père,” Émile said. “Why would we be happy to be at home again?”

“You will see your mother and father.” Jean sat down and drew Georges onto his lap. “I am sure they have missed you very much. Haven’t you missed them?”

“We have.” Fantine took a bite out of some cheese. “But we were with you and Monsieur Javert and —”

“We didn’t know that Monsieur Javert liked us, Grand-père,” Émile interrupted. “It is nice to know that he did on holiday. We just want to know that he will like us now at home too.”

The children settled to their breakfast, completely unaware of what they had revealed with their simple words. Jean cradled Georges close to him and watched them eating, chatting more animatedly together now that they had relieved themselves of their burden. He could hardly blame them for the question, really. Children were so sensitive to things like that, knowing instinctively which adults they could turn to and those they couldn’t. It should have come as no surprise that they had been under the impression Javert didn’t like them. Now that he thought about it, Jean realised the children had in their own ways tried hard to impress their grandfather’s strange friend.

But the morning passed in a whirl of going about the house, collecting up all manner of things that the children had managed to unpack and lose and spread all over the place, even in a few short hours.vThe chatter of little voices and feet on the stairs was a sweet sound, and Jean savoured it. Then, just as Toussaint arrived for the afternoon and swept the children into the kitchen for a late lunch, there came a knock at the door. 

It was ridiculous to be nervous, Jean told himself as he went to the door. It was only Cosette, who would be angry at him for losing Émile, but understandably so, and it would not last. Nevertheless, he had to steel himself to open the door; when he managed it, he found her smiling on the doorstep. 

“Papa!” she exclaimed, throwing her arms around him. “Oh, I have missed you so much!”

She was radiant, as always, wearing a blue dress that he had not seen before and a new hat. Over her shoulder, he saw Javert returning on time, as he had promised, and greeting Marius at the gate. Marius exclaimed over Javert’s bandaged hand and although Javert brushed aside the concerns, Jean did not miss the look that Javert gave him as he came up the path at Marius’ side. If he didn’t know better, he would say that Javert was afraid.

But there was no time to discuss that now, and he pushed the thought aside. Instead the children were allowed through to greet their parents before they ate, and it was a very happy scene indeed. Jean sat in his chair and watched the embraces and kisses, his heart swelling in his chest. He glanced over at Javert and saw that he watched too, a small almost-smile on his face. Fantine, ever glad of a chance to be dramatic, clung to her mother and refused to go for her lunch until she was assured that she would be allowed a cake afterwards if she went quietly. 

“So, Papa!” Cosette said, as the door closed once more and they were left in peace. “Tell me everything. The children look so well, I cannot thank you enough for taking them.”

They spoke a little of the holiday, and then it came to the moment when Jean had to tell the truth of what had happened. Javert came to sit on the arm of his chair and slowly, together, they explained it. Cosette and Marius listened well – for all their chatter, they were good also at listening – and although Cosette became paler and paler as the story went on, neither of them said a word except to ask for clarification. Jean’s stomach twisted as he talked about losing Émile, how afraid he had been, how guilty, and his voice broke as he tried to continue. Javert took up the story instead, how Fantine had suggested the caves, how they had gone alone to search them and all that had come after. When Cosette reached over and clutched at Jean’s hand, he hoped that it meant he was to be forgiven. 

“Émile did that?” Marius interjected, when Javert spoke of how the boy had leapt out and struck down Montparnasse. His disbelief was understandable; he, after all, had also come up against the Patron-Minette once. 

“He did,” Javert nodded. “Your son is extremely brave. You should be proud of him.”

Jean did not miss how Marius sat back in his chair, looking exactly that. 

The story finished with the escape from the cave, although Javert left out quite how injured Jean had been. Cosette was pale enough already – she did not need to hear about that as well.

“I am so sorry,” Jean said, as Javert came to his conclusion. “You trusted me with Émile, and I let you down. You must know how sorry I am.”

Cosette was quiet for a moment or two, looking down at her hand joined with her father’s, and unaware that all pairs of eyes in the room were fixed on her. Then she took a deep breath and looked up. 

“I do not blame you, Papa, and there is nothing to be sorry for. Émile is a headstrong child and he makes his own choices, regardless of what is best for him. You brought them all home safe to me, and that is what I asked of you. Please do not feel guilty. I will not allow it.”

Jean couldn’t help himself then, as he finally began to weep. Weeks of fear and worry, all pushed away for the sake of the children, bubbled within him and spilled over at the sound of Cosette’s gentle words. She was the only person who had ever been able to make him weep so, and it was relief that was doing it now. He could not stop, but he was grateful when Javert got to his feet and suggested to Marius that the two of them begin to bring down the children’s luggage. 

They left the room and Cosette came to Jean’s side, her fingers in his hair. He did not weep for long – he had never been one for long outbursts of emotion – but it was enough to relieve the tension that had been building within him. 

“You have never let anyone down, Papa,” Cosette said, her words a strange echo of the ones he had heard when he was injured. “And you have not done so now.”

“Thank you, my dear.”

By the time that the carriage had arrived for the Pontmercys, Marius and Javert had stacked all of the luggage neatly in the garden and Toussaint had helped the children to dress. Jean and Cosette went out into the hall to join them all.

“Papa, you and Javert must join us tomorrow for dinner,” Cosette said. “The children will be bereft without you, and I expect Marius is most eager to talk about our own trip.”

And then they were gone, loaded into the carriage and rattling off down the street. Émile and Fantine hung out of the window, waving until they turned the corner at the end of the road. Jean waved back, but Javert had already turned and was standing in the hall, looking about him. 

“How quiet it will be,” he said, his voice hard to read. “Without them.”

“Indeed.” Jean closed the door and they stood a moment in silence. Then he remembered Javert’s return, and the look on his face.

“What happened this morning?”

“Ah. I cannot keep anything from you.”

They went through to the library and sat side by side on the sofa. Javert was twisting his hands, as he so often did when something was on his mind, and Jean reached out to stop him before he hurt his healing fingers. 

“Montparnasse tried to name you,” Javert said. “When he was brought before the court, he asked if anyone had bothered to question you, and told them your name – your real name.”

Jean’s mind raced. He was exhausted, but here was the old fear that he would be captured once more, and returned to the bagne. He stood and began to pace before the fireplace, lest he injure Javert himself by squeezing his hand. 

“What is going to happen?”

“Well, you see, that is the strange part of it,” Javert said. “I was told what he had said, of course. But – I don’t know what happened. It seems that part of his evidence will not be going on the record. Dismissed even, as slander. They will not act upon it, not even to investigate if it is true.”

“But how —”

“I do not know. But someone has made that decision. You are safe, Jean.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost there!


	36. Homecoming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and as this summer draws to a close, so does this fic. Thank you for coming on holiday with all of us! We hope you guys have enjoyed as much as Beds and I have enjoyed making this with each other ♥

They had seen seen a mostly inclement summer in Paris before their departure for the untrammelled seaside sun. Javert had half expected the weather to have worsened upon their return. It was therefore an unexpected surprise to discover their unorthodox little household had come home to a city that was experiencing a glorious, unseasonal September. 

The weeks after the trial were characteristic of such mild weather: bright sunshine, a pleasant breeze, skies that were almost the same untroubled blue as those in Étaples. Javert saw no need to change out of his light coat; where once he would have exchanged his summer garb for hardier garments more appropriate for the encroaching autumn months — so that he would not be caught off guard when the weather inevitably changed for the worse — he found he had learned over the course of the summer to stop and appreciate the moment of unlooked-for fortune. 

He had left the house slightly later than his wont, having uncharacteristically indulged himself in morning embraces with an all-too-willing companion. Well, this was another thing he had learned to stop and appreciate.

He had not changed so much, however, as to indulge in a fiacre. He walked; he would always walk in his city; the day he was required to be conveyed in a carriage to his place of work would be the day he retired from service.

When he arrived at the station-house at No. 14 Rue de Pontoise, he found another unexpected sight — François, his desk sergeant, waiting upon the doorstep. 

“Good God, man, I am fifteen minutes late, at the most!”

“You have an unexpected addition to your schedule, Monsieur,” François said meaningfully. “This time, it isn’t M. Desmarais, but someone else.”

With some effort, Javert stopped himself from rolling his eyes. “Did this gentleman happen to leave a name?”

“He said to tell you it was André-Joseph,” François said, and Javert’s heart leaped. There was only one man he knew with that first name, and that man had never referred to himself by it in all the years of their close acquaintance. 

“I showed him to your office,” François called after him, meaningfully, as Javert took the stairs in haste.

The former Secretary of the First Bureau of the Prefecture of Police, who had served the administration for twenty years, under ten prefects of police, and who had known everything of import that occurred within his wide sphere of influence, and every person. He had been Javert’s first and only patron. Javert owed him every advance in his career, including his first posting to Montreuil-sur-mer and then the opportunities in Paris that followed. Javert was certain, also, that it was André-Joseph Chabouillet who had persuaded the Prefecture not to terminate his employment when he had written his letter to the Prefect with certain observations for the good of the service.

It had been eight years since the man’s retirement, but, sitting in the chair outside Javert’s office, he looked as if he had hardly aged a day. Perhaps there was more silver in his distinguished head, but the aristocratic carriage, the ramrod-straight deportment, was precisely the same, and Javert would have recognised it anywhere in the world. 

“M. Chabouillet, what an unexpected surprise!”

“I hope it is a pleasant one,” his former patron said, rising with his hand outstretched. Javert clasped it, Chabouillet’s grasp as strong and authoritative as ever.

“You know it is. It is very good to see you. I had heard some talk that our new Prefect managed to persuade you out of retirement, but Desmarais said nothing about it and I assumed it was merely a rumour.”

Chabouillet snorted as he was ushered into Javert’s office. “Ha, I would that it were so. But no, I have indeed allowed myself to be swayed by the notion that I might be of some temporary assistance to M. Vivien, my old friend and former prefect.”

Javert had never met this gentleman, Gisquet’s predecessor as Prefect of Police, but all of France knew Alexandre-François Vivien as the present Minister of Justice. He had not realised it, but of course Chabouillet would have served Vivien during his old patron’s lengthy tenure at the Prefecture.

He remained standing until Chabouillet lowered himself into the chair opposite his desk; only then did he take his seat. “M. le Ministre is most fortunate to count on your expertise.”

“Let’s hope he sees it that way,” Chabouillet said, wryly. Then he leaned forward, steepling his own hands on the desk. “You’re well, Javert? I heard you had a busy summer, and that you were injured bringing some criminals to justice.” 

Javert lowered his gaze; he flexed the fingers of his left hand, which had recently been freed of its bandages. “It was nothing,” he said uncomfortably. “I am fully recovered. And it was a coincidence that some of the old Patron-Minette gang happened to be up to no good in the same sleepy seaside town where I was taking my month off.”

“An unhappy coincidence for them, but a stroke of luck for us,” Chabouillet remarked. “The Minister for Commerce and Manufacturing was most impressed that you managed what La Douane could not.”

Javert issued a disbelieving half-laugh. “I hope La Douane’s nose is not put out of joint. Monsieur, truly, I did not achieve any intrepid feat of policing. It was, as you say, a stroke of luck that I happened upon these criminals, so far from Paris where they believed no one would recognise them.” 

Chabouillet smiled. “Calm yourself, Javert, there is no bad blood here. The Ministry is grateful. In fact, there was some talk about a commendation for you and your friend M. Fauchelevent.”

Javert stopped at this. There was a meaningful note in his former patron’s voice that he thought he recognised: it was the same tone as he had previously deployed when attempting to communicate something not explicitly to Javert.

“I told M. Desmarais that we could not accept any commendations,” he said, carefully. “Neither of us has any need for such further recognition.”

“Be that as it may, I have taken the liberty of entering a commendation into your personnel record,” Chabouillet said in a deliberately casual tone. “How is M. Fauchelevent, by the way? I do not believe I have met the gentleman, nor do I recall you mentioning him to me in any of our discussions prior to my retirement from the Prefecture.”

Javert was uncertain as to where this was going, or whether he ought to become fearful on Valjean’s behalf, but Chabouillet did not seem to be conveying any reason for concern. Quite the converse; Javert had never seen his former patron look quite as affable as he did this morning.

“M. Fauchelevent is well,” he said, at last. “None the worse for wear from our adventures, the same as I am, but we are both relieved to have seen the last of the Patron-Minette gang.”

“Let me assure you, so are we all,” Chabouillet said, with feeling. “You did very well, Javert, and the government is in your debt.” 

He paused, and then looked pointedly at Javert. “So much so that anything the Patron-Minette might have alleged before the assize courts would be dismissed out of turn. After all, hardened criminals would invent all sorts of falsehoods in an attempt to stay out of prison. They should not be permitted to slander innocent citizens who have not done society any harm.” 

Javert finally allowed himself to comprehend the enormity of what his former patron was conveying; it made him unsteady at the knees. For a moment he could not speak. Finally, he managed, “It seems I am in your debt as well, Monsieur. All your years of patronage, and now this. Thank you.”

“There is nothing to be thankful for,” Chabouillet remarked mildly. “After all, you have served the Prefecture faithfully for years, and have never once failed in your duty. I have always trusted your judgment. If it is indeed your assessment that society is well served by present arrangements, then neither I nor anyone else will gainsay you.”

He got to his feet, a little stiffly, leaning on his lion’s-head cane. “Please present my regards to M. Fauchelevent. By all accounts, he seems a remarkable man, and I’ll wager that you seem not unsatisfied with your lot.”

Javert rose too and clasped Chabouillet’s hand once again. “Indeed, Monsieur, my lot has never been more satisfactory.”

“I am glad to hear it,” said Chabouillet, wryly, and allowed Javert to escort him to the door.

 

*

 

Javert knew he ought to communicate Chabouillet’s news to Valjean straight away, but he was not sure he could find the right means of conveying it. 

Besides, they were scheduled to have an early dinner with Marius and Cosette and the children that evening, and Javert had barely set foot through the door of Rue Plumet before it was time to hail a fiacre to take them to Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire.

Over the last week since their return from Étaples, Javert had been preoccupied with the Patron Minette trial, and had seen very little of the children. Now, when he and Valjean arrived at No. 6, they were greeted at the door with shrieks of glee. The bundle of kittens swarmed at their feet, Fantine flung her arms around Javert’s waist, Georges reached from his father’s arms to excitedly clutch hold of Javert’s cravat, and to his astonishment Javert discovered he did not mind at all.

“Children, be careful of M. Javert’s uniform!” Marius was saying, helplessly, as Javert took the baby from him, all the better to disentangle little fingers from his neck.

Javert held back his smile. “I see everything is much as it was!”

“Not everything, thanks to you,” Cosette said, winking, as she swooped in to kiss him and relieve him of her son. 

Here was the case in point: young Émile approached confidently, seeming even more adult than he had looked the last time Javert had seen him. He held his hand out, and Javert surprised both of them by putting his arms around the boy.

“How have you been? Has the new term already started?”

Émile smiled. “It will start very soon. I was so glad of our adventures this summer with you and Grand-père! But I shall also be glad when school begins again.”

“So will I,” said Cosette with feeling, as she ushered everyone in to dinner.

 

*

 

They ended up dallying at the Pontmercys’ lively household far later than their usual wont, long after the children had gone to bed, distracted by talk of politics and England and the children’s schooling. Upon their return to their quiet home at Rue Plumet, after ablutions and prayers had been completed, Javert lay in their bed at Valjean’s side and took a moment to savour the peaceful silence. 

The house was still, the windows open to admit the temperate night breeze, and the moon cast its brightness equally across the luxuriant garden outside and the bedroom within.

“How empty the house seems,” Javert found himself remarking, and it was with as much wistfulness as with relief. Well, this was yet another way in which things were not as they had once been.

“It does,” Valjean murmured. Then he added, with a faint, wry smile, “How pleasant it is to have the home to ourselves again.”

There came a faint, lazy purring sound from under their bed. Javert was gratified that this sentiment was shared between all three of them.

“Indeed. And yet, I noticed your daughter was hinting at her plans for next summer…” Abruptly Javert turned so he could look Valjean in the eye; his companion had turned slightly pink, and Javert clasped his hand. “Of course we may spend our holidays with them next summer, if you wish it. Wherever it is you and the children desire to travel to. You only need say the word.”

Valjean reached out and traced the line of Javert’s cheek with one finger, the gentlest of touches from a man who was still the strongest of men. “You are indulgent tonight,” he said diffidently. 

Javert had the queer sensation of his heart feeling almost too large for his chest. “It isn’t mere indulgence, though I will always indulge you gladly. This summer was in all a blessing, and not just for you.”

Valjean’s eyes shone in the moonlight, and the sight of it led Javert to more words, at last. “And today also brought yet another blessing, for I discovered who was behind the quashing of Montparnasse’s evidence. Chabouillet paid me a visit; he has come out of retirement to assist the Ministry of Justice. He told me the state and the Prefecture values what we did, and that you are safe.”

Valjean drew a shaky, startled breath as the news sank home. His hands trembled, uncontrollably, and Javert covered every inch of them with careful kisses until the shivering stopped. 

“After all this time? Can matters be so simple?”

“It would seem so. As I said, a blessing, and the most unexpected one of all.”

Valjean inhaled sharply again, and then he pressed his lips to Javert’s. “Not more unexpected than this one,” he murmured, and Javert found he could not disagree — for nothing in all his life was more surprising, or more sacred, than the love that he had discovered with his one-time adversary and benefactor and beloved friend, in this winter twilight of their lives that was also a new and invincible dawn. 

He held out his arms, as fervent as a much younger man, and Valjean settled, smiling, into his embrace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Minister for Justice in September 1840 was former Prefect of Police [Alexandre-François Vivien](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alexandre-Fran%C3%A7ois_Vivien). Vivien disagreed with then Minister of the Interior Casimir Perier and had to give way to Henri Gisquet in 1831, but found his way (temporarily) back into favour with Adolphe Thiers’ second cabinet.

**Author's Note:**

> Our thanks to esteven who will be providing her usual excellent historical beta!
> 
> Title taken from the Victor Hugo quote: _'Quand la grâce est jointe aux rides, elle est adorable. Il ya une aube indescriptible dans la vieillesse heureuse'_ , which translates to, 'When grace is joined with wrinkles, it is adorable. There is an indescribable dawn in a happy old age.'
> 
> Updates will, barring any problems, be weekly.


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